


This Is My Kingdom Come

by Salomonderiel



Series: This Vicious Little World [1]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Demon!Stiles, Humour, M/M, changeling stiles, slow burner, this is gonna be one long journey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-21
Updated: 2012-10-25
Packaged: 2017-11-12 14:33:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 64,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/492234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salomonderiel/pseuds/Salomonderiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>By the time he’d hit his 17th birthday, he’d sorted his life out.<br/>It came down to this:<br/>His name was Stiles Stilinski. He was the son of the Sheriff and his wife, deceased, and his best friend was Scott McCall, an ex-asthmatic werewolf with a nurse mother and an absent father. He was the cleverest in his class, after the strawberry blonde he had a crush on, and he had been diagnosed with ADHD at the age of seven. On full moons, he ran around and cooked for the local pack of werewolves. And he was a demon changeling.<br/></p>
</blockquote>Stiles has managed to avoid Hell and its natives for near 16 years. He's almost managed to fool himself he's human. And best friend who smells of wet dog or not, he thinks he'd got a pretty good deal with this second chance at a life, and is planning to stick with it. But, unknown to Stiles, the new king of Hell has other ideas...
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, you can go ahead and blame all the gifs floating around on tumblr for this monster-sized fic. I couldn't stop myself. It's probably gonna be a 3-parter, but I'm not entirely sure just yet. And am gonna try my best to update once a week or so, cos... bloody huge chapters.  
> Do not fear - this time, it HAS been beta'd quite extensively by an american. brighellamagellan, off tumblr. She's awesome. Go follow.  
> (Also, I'm aware that Jeff Davis said that 'Genim' isn't Stiles' actual name, but as the fandom's accepted it, it's the name I'm going to use)
> 
> Title from the song Demons, by Imagine Dragons.

It had been uncertain, when Genim Stilinski had been born, how long he’d live for.

The doctors and specialists had called it a defect of the vascular system in the brain. The blood vessels hadn’t developed and grown properly, causing there to be a lack of oxygen in areas that sorely needed it. And, at the time, there were no procedures that could help him. They’d told the mother that there was very little chance her son would make it past his first birthday. She’d told her husband that hope was slim, but that they wouldn’t give up.

She and her son were discharged from the hospital two after the birth. The doctors warned them they’d have to fight for him – his movements were slower than a usual newborn’s, development took longer, he slept more. Long after when a baby usually can begin to focus their eyesight, Genim was still seemingly blind. His mother extended her maternity leave, when his father returned to work, in order to care for him. She cried for him, prayed for him, and damn did she fight for him.

Genim Stilinski was just over the ten month marker when the young body couldn’t sustain the difficulties any longer, and his brain stopped working on a higher cognitive level.

The next morning – February 14th, 1997 – someone else woke up, opened their eyes, and focused on the world.

*

He couldn’t remember his name. Probably something pretentious and chic sounding, but not too long. No, something short and sweet and befitting the youngest brother of an old, upper-class and high-society family.

What he _did_ remember was that his eldest brother had been a jackass, gambling drunk who’d thrown away their old, _old_ heritage by the ripe old age of 17, putting the threat of debtor’s prison over the family’s head and putting _him_ at a crossroad, making deals with the devil. Fortune was restored, and his soul was condemned in one simple conversation, with a promise of ten sweet years.

Two days later, his brother’s ‘swanky’ new hansom had cut him down as said elder brother returned from his belov’d whore house, and his soul had started its long turn on the spits of hell.

Ah, isn’t dark humor a be-a- _utiful_ thing.

He remembered all that... vaguely. Anything substantial, any memories of _thoughts_ and _sensations_ had been burnt off his skin – or what passed for his skin, in the afterlife. The injustice of it, _that_ stayed with him. They liked things like injustice in the pit.

He learned quickly, whoever he was, whatever he was, picking up tips to survival wherever and however he could. It’s best to nod. It’s best to be submissive. It’s best to show support for the biggest cheese there. It’s best to give up hope on going Up There again. And it’s best if _you’re_ the one holding the sharp-edged objects.

Sometimes, he... regrets it? Feels a pang of guilt? Something like that. One of those types of things. Anyway... yes, he _regrets_ being so quick to become the torturer rather than the tortured. Like he should have been stronger, but then he realizes – there’s nothing to be strong for. Killed by the brother whose reputation he’d saved, and left to have the skin burnt from his bones for eternity – what _purpose_ is there, for being the better man?

Each time he has to pick up a knife, he reminds himself of that.

Two hundred years – and it doesn’t help, not once.

But that doesn’t mean he’s strong enough to stop.

And then, near the turn of the millennium there’s plotting and scheming like never before, a welcome mat being laid out for the cloven-hoofed one himself, and they’re calling for ranks and soldiers and spies.

He doesn’t care to fight, he lets it pass, tries to ignore it because it can’t mean anything good, and there’s still enough in him that remembers the charitable houses on the backstreets of London, the care of a community and he’s not ready, quite yet, to see it burn. He doesn’t, he tells himself, want to fight in this war. It can go over his head.

But then, one of them – one of the _big_ men, with the yellow eyes and the grin that _doesn’t stop_ , he calls for volunteers. Men to serve, to be on the side that’s winning. Men to lie in wait, in hiding, until the world is ripe for the plucking and plundering and pillaging.

He has a word for it, a word that makes it sound so easy – sleepers.

Sleepers, to wait for years, decades, Up There.

And this yellow-eyed one, Azazel, wants the newbies, the ones who remember humans and human interaction well enough to be able to blend in, to not be noticed or draw attention, who have enough human in them to be able to wait in hiding for their feast of blood.

And it sounds so simple, so peaceful, but most of all, it sounds like a second chance at humanity.

Decades – he can take the decades. He’s owed a decade, after all.

He signs up.

They’re released in the country and homes of the rich and famous, and the others steal the bodies of teenagers, of middle-aged men, of billionaires, of actors, of royalty, of anyone they can find – they’ve been given a free pass to treat themselves, drown themselves in expenses and luxury, and they take it.

But in the Colonies, the far, exotic, _new_ side of the colonies, a state called California and a town called Beacon Hills, he finds something that... makes the human in him, the human that’s clung on all these centuries, feel a spark of strength again. Morality, that hasn’t reared its head for a _long_ time, starts to whisper at him again.

It’s a fragile, dying body without a mind, and a mother curled up around it, with tears staining her cheeks.

_Well, if it’s a second chance that I’m after – I might as well do it properly._

*

“Mom! Mom! He likes the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches! He’s my best friend, Mom!” he yelled as he ran from school, tugging the best friend after him.

His mom beamed at him from where she was waiting by the car, and said, laughing, “That’s nice, Stiles, sweetie. What’s your best friend’s name?”

The question confused him for a second. Name? Had he asked? He had – his best friend had answered. He’d said – he’d said – he spun back to the boy behind him and asked, “Best friend, what’s your name?”

“Uh, Scott,” his best friend Scott replied, eyes wide and looking funny. It made Stiles laugh to see him so confused, like when Stiles had asked him why he had sat beneath _that_ tree, because _that_ tree had a bee’s nest in it (the bees hadn’t liked being fed honey, even though his dad had told him they liked honey. Stiles would have to tell his dad this, so he knew and didn’t get stung.)

“His name’s Scott!” he yelled to his mom, spinning back around. “And he’s coming to see the squirrels in our garden!”

His mom nodded a bit, before saying, “Scott, is it? Scott, is your mom Nurse McCall? Does she work at the hospital?”

“Um... yes?” best friend Scott said carefully, eyes still wide and bemused. _Bee-mused_. Stiles had liked that word, he’d learned it from his dad’s friend a few days earlier.

“Does she know you’re coming to play with Stiles tonight?”

“Yes?”

His mom grinned, and Stiles knew that meant she was happy, so he grinned back, jumping and pulling his best friend Scott towards the car. “Well, I guess I can’t stop you, then! But no climbing in the tree, okay, Stiles? Stiles, _no climbing again!”_

“Yes, Mom!”

But it was okay, he decided later, when Scott cut his knee falling from the first branch of the tree – he hadn’t _listened_ to Stiles, Stiles had _said_ that branch wasn’t strong enough to hold him – because Mom had said Scott’s mom was a nurse so she’d patch him up and make him okay.

When _he_ fell out of the tree – another branch had broken and Scott had laughed at him, but in a nice way – he didn’t worry so much about his cut. He didn’t know why... he just knew he didn’t have to.

*

Stiles didn’t quite know what the envelope meant, but he knew it was important. It had been sitting on the side, untouched, waiting until Dad got back from work. Mom hadn’t even touched it. When he’d asked about it, she’d ruffled his hair and smiled, telling him it was nothing to worry about. “Just a formality, is all,” she’d promised, before letting him eat the brownie mix from the bowl, a mix he’d help to make. A big man now, she’d said he had to mix it all up for her. It had hurt his arm, but, curled up in a corner of the couch and steadily licking his way to the center of the bowl (work your way inwards, he’d figured out, and you don’t get mix all over your face), the pain had been worth it.

The door clicked open and shut, and in a flash Stiles had set down the bowl, jumped off the sofa and ran out into the hall. His dad was hanging his jacket on the coat hooks and kicking off his shoes (in the same way Mom kept telling _Stiles_ off for doing, but she never told off Dad), and he laughed when Stiles went dashing up to him. “Hey buddy, where’s the fire?” he asked, grinning down at him.

“Can we open the envelope? Mom’s not letting me and I _know_ it’s about me, and the brownies were good but I swear, the envelope was _watching_ me and I _know_ it doesn’t have eyes, but it _was—_ ”

“Envelope?” his dad had echoed, laughter turning into a frown. There were footsteps, and Stiles spun around at the same his dad looked up, to see his mom enter the hallway from the kitchen, carrying the envelope itself.

“Just the confirmation,” she said, and his dad sighed, stepping around Stiles to take it from her. He opened it without any trouble, as if he was opening a _normal_ envelope, but Stiles couldn’t breathe. He wanted to _know_.

And his parents were looking at it, and muttering, and reading it, but not saying anything loud enough for him to hear. He knew it would be rude if he went over to them and listened in – not that _that_ stopped him at school, but he wouldn’t do that to his _mom_ and _dad_ – so instead, he stayed where he was and asked, “What is it?” He didn’t want to sound nervous, as he was a big man who cooked brownies now, but he still did, somehow.

They both looked at him, then at each other, and then his dad said, finally, “You remember those tests you did a while back? With the shapes and stuff, in the white office?” Stiles nodded – it had been fun, “Well, that test showed that your brain works slightly differently from other people. It’s faster.”

“I’m clever. I know that,” he said, and his mom laughed. That made him grin.

“It’s, uh, it’s a bit different than that,” his dad said, smiling too. “It’s called ADHD. It means you can’t focus as easily, either. You know how you talk a lot and daydream and can’t do one thing for too long? It’s all that.”

He had to think about it for a second. It was a lot of stuff to think about. He didn’t know what to ask first. “What’s ADHD mean?” he asked eventually.

“Attention deficit hyperactive disorder,” his mom told him.

He only knew what two of those words meant. “Disorder? Isn’t – isn’t that a bad thing?”

“No, sweetie,” his mom had said without a pause, stepping forwards and pulling him into a hug. He wrapped his arms around her waist and held on. “No, not at all, it’s a way of describing you. It’s just who you are. It’s not bad at all.”

But there was more to it than that, an uneasiness that was twisting his stomach and making it hurt. “I’m sorry I’ve got a disorder,” he said, the words muffled by the jumper Mom was wearing. “I’m sorry I’m not the son you want.”

All of a sudden, he was being pushed away from his mom, being held in place by her hands on his shoulders as she crouched down until she was the same height as him. “Stiles,” she said, face serious and unsmiling. “Listen to me. We love you, for everything you are, intelligent, clever, messy, clumsy, disordered and all. You understand that, okay? Get that into your little brain, and let it stick there.”

A hand ruffled his hair, and he knew it was Dad. “You’re a nutjob, kiddo, but you’re _our_ nutjob,” he said, with that slight lift in his voice that made Stiles know he was happy.

He kept looking at his mom, not blinking, because he knew that meant things were serious. And he nodded. She smiled and hugged him, and then his dad was hugging them too, and everything felt happy again.

“Mom?”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“D’you think the brownies will be ready yet?”

*

Integrated Studies was _the_ most boring subject they’d been made to take after joining middle school. That the current subject was ‘religion and beliefs’ did _nothing_ to make it more fascinating. Three weeks and four lessons in, Stiles was already planning ways to permanently get himself out of the lesson. Religious sensitivity? Against his moralities? Chronic allergy to Mrs. Madderson?

Behind him, he could already hear Scott snoring quietly. Fury settling onto his face and making him chew the inside of his cheeks, he ripped a sheet out of his book as quietly as he could, and scribbled onto it, _WAKE UP POO-FACE, IF I’M SUFFERING THROUGH THIS SO ARE YOU_ , before scrunching it up, and peering over his shoulder long enough to aim and throw the paper wad straight into Scott’s slightly open mouth.

The sound of his friend choking made him grin.

“McCall! Anything the problem?”

“Uhh... uh – um, no, nothing, nothing, Miss!”

He shoved his fist against his mouth to stop himself laughing. The kick Scott sent to his chair leg only made it harder to stop.

“Good! Then you can hand out the new textbooks for me!”

He physically had to swallow the laughter now. Scott punched him as he walked past, and made sure he got the really nasty book, but he thought it was worth it.

“Turn to page 4, children and start to read in silence the first few paragraphs on the Christian view of where our souls go when we die...”

She kept talking, but Stiles wasn’t listening. Because after turning to the page, he felt a darkness cover his eyes, turning them black from corner to corner, as he saw the elaborated illustrations of his kindred souls. The sensation was new, but not entirely terrifying.

On page 5 was a drawing of hell, of horned devils and demons.

Age 10, Stiles saw it, and thought _that’s what I am_ , as if he’d known it all along.

*

It was days like this when he wished he’d never left hell. There weren’t many of those moments – _hadn’t_ been many of those moments – but there would be, after – now she – now she was gone –

There were uncles and distant relatives and friends of the family looking for him, but he was good at hiding in shadows. He’d never really needed to, before, but as one black-clad stranger after another searched through the room to offer meaningless words in place of _her_ , he was grateful he’d taken the time to practice, if only to help with sneaking out of the house to go off with Scott.

Scott was here somewhere, with his mom.

Stiles gasped, struggling to get air inside his lungs. The world was clouded with tears, and as he strove to breathe he wiped the water away with the base of his palm, shaking as he tried to stop himself falling apart.

He’d be dying from the pain, he thought, if he wasn’t dead already.

Another man in a suit, and a weeping fat woman clenching a black scarf in her hand, were scanning the room. Desperate not to be seen, desperate not to have to speak to anyone, to have to _pretend_ , he stopped breathing, sinking back against the crease between the floor and the wall, hands covering his mouth. He could feel the darkness covering his eyes, as the shadows hid him from their sad, dry, human eyes. When they moved on, to the next room, to the free bar most likely, he let himself breathe out, his hands shaking as they fell back into his lap.

Why was he even _here_? He’d gone to the funeral, he’d paid his respects, he’d let her go and sat there as they lowered the coffin, _what more did he need to do_? It wasn’t like any of it was actually going to _help_! All it did, any of it, the picking of the coffin and the date and the poems to be read out, the buying of the black suit, of having his dad help with his tie, being driven to the cemetery in his dad’s cruiser rather than the family car she’d always driven, it just made everything _worse_ , knowing she wasn’t _here_ anymore! What was the _point_ of all this?!

The show, the spectacle, the selfish spectators needing to see the family being strong so they could continue with their lives.

Well _fuck_ them. What did it matter about them? _He_ was the one suffering here; he was the one who had to spend each day without her! Why did they have to do anything for _them_ , why couldn’t they all just _leave_ him _alone?!_ She’d been _his_ mother... couldn’t there just be silence, so he could try and remember every single memory he’d ever be able to have with her, and just lose himself in them...

But the first memory that came to mind was how she’d looked as she bled out, trapped by the roof of the car.

She hadn’t said anything, the paramedics had told him, not about her wounds. As soon as they’d arrived, she’d yelled at them to help _him_ , to get him out of the car and into the ambulance. _I’m fine_ , she’d told them, _my son, my son, him first, then me_.

So the paramedics had wasted time saving the boy who couldn’t die, as she’d died without a word.

He should have stayed in hell. She wouldn’t even have been in the car if he hadn’t left hell.

But it was too late now. He didn’t have a soul to trade for hers, anymore.

At least – at least, he knew, she would be in heaven. Dad would get to see her again.

He wouldn’t.

He wouldn’t – he couldn’t – he’d never –

He couldn’t silence himself this time, couldn’t stop the sob that tore itself from his chest, and the tears came too fast for him to catch them. With a sound akin to a scream, he clenched at his sides, curling in on himself, and stopped trying to fight it. He could feel the stitches in his cuts tear, the skin pulling and arteries breaking open, blood seeping into the pristine white material of his shirt, but he didn’t care, ignored it all, as a stronger pain ripped him apart.

“Hey... there you are...”

A hand slid onto his shoulder, firm and comforting, and his dad slid down to crouch beside him. Stiles tried to turn to him to see him, his face, needing to see him and not feel so lost, but he couldn’t see anything through the tears filling his eyes, just a blur. But he could feel him, his hand, his warmth, and that was enough to make him let go of the last ounce of strength he’d desperately been clinging to.

He fell onto his dad, crying loudly, hands grabbing at the suit jacket he was wearing, pressing his face and eyes into the fabric. Arms held him there, rocking him slowly as his dad shushed him gently. “Come on,” he said eventually, voice familiar and quiet as he whispered into Stiles’ ear, “I think it’s time to go, don’t you?”

Stiles nodded against his chest, his grip tightening in silent thanks, as he was still sobbing too hard to speak.

“Okay. Hold on tight, kiddo.”

His dad slipped an arm under Stiles’ legs, and when he rose to his feet he brought Stiles with him, holding him against his chest like he’d used to, when Stiles would graze his knee or hurt his ankle after falling.

He’s not little anymore, he’s twelve, and isn’t meant to need help when he falls over.

He didn’t care. He buried his face against his dad and ignored everyone who’s probably watching as the widower carries his son from the wake.

His dad carried him to the car, and had to ask him if he could stand. Stiles swallowed and nodded, and let himself be set down, waiting patiently as his dad unlocked the car and opened the door for him.

On the journey back home, Stiles didn’t cry. He’d run out of tears.

His dad did.

And when they got home, Stiles wished he could carry _him_ into the house. He couldn’t, but he did what he could. He held his dad’s hand, led him into the living room, turned the TV on to a game, and then curled up beside him on the couch.

*

“You’re _what?!”_

“It’s not for sure!” Scott said hurriedly, the volume of his voice shifting constantly as he, presumably, moved the phone closer and further from his face.

“So, just—” Stiles began, before pausing and rubbing his face with his free hand. “Just – what did the principal say, exactly, again? And remember this whole conversation we had, about using phones, y’know, how you’ve got to hold them _next to your mouth—”_

“Yeah, yeah. And, apparently, he told Mom that... uh, something like how the grades I was getting in my subjects made it seem like it would be good for me to be held back a year.”

“No!” Stiles yelled, pulling a face and waving a hand, even though he knew Scott couldn’t see him. Unlike some, he _did_ know how phones worked. “No, dude, not acceptable! So definitely not acceptable! You are not making me go to high school alone, I would die. _Die_. You know, become _dead_.”

“Well it doesn’t look like I have much choice!”

Scott had been his best friend for years. Near a decade. So much so that Stiles didn’t even _know_ how to make new friends anymore, how to be normal long enough for someone to start to like him enough to put up with his madness – and that’s not even talking about any well-hidden black-eyed madness, just... _him_ madness.

It was almost the same for Scott, he knew. The kid was just too... hey, who even _knew_ what Scott was. But, even though he’d been coming to terms with his low IQ since he’d figured out what ‘stupid’ meant, Stiles knew his friend’s pride would still be stinging from the very _idea_ of being held back.

So. That was it, then.

“Yes, you do,” Stiles said, sitting upright in his chair and thinking, hard. “So, what, you’ve still got... what, six exams left?”

“Yeah, but I’d have to _ace_ them—”

“Then that’s what you’ll do. You got your textbooks with you?”

“All but chemistry – why, what—”

“That’s fine, I’ve got that, I can bring mine. You’ve got pens, notepads, I’ll bring markers and more paper, we’re gonna need lots of paper—”

“Stiles – _Stiles_ what are you _talking_ about?”

Stiles pushed himself off his chair, grabbing his hoodie with one hand and striding towards the door. “Me? I’m gonna tutor you so hard you’d wished you’d never popped out of your mom.”

“One: Stiles, that is so gross. Two, Stiles – please god no I’ll be fine—”

“See you in ten, Scott!” Stiles yelled, before turning off the phone and cutting Scott’s desperate protests short. Chuckling, he chucked the phone onto the bed and pulled the door shut behind him.

A second later, he flung the door open again, dashing over his desk to grab his keys, the markers and paper pad he’d mentioned, and the phone that he’d originally gotten from downstairs, before running back out again.

*

The Sheriff said a vacant 'hi' to his deputy on desk duty as he entered the office. He tried not to yawn whilst praying to whatever God might be listening that the coffee machine was actually working this morning. Alone in the house that morning, he'd overslept without Stiles' tripping down the stairs to wake him up.

"Morning, Sheriff," his deputy said, handing him a wad of papers and notices that had probably built up overnight. He groaned, and almost immediately groaned harder when his deputy grinned. "That's nothing," she said, "We've got a pair of delinquents in the cells that you might want to go check out first. If they've woken up yet."

A horrible feeling settling in, he dropped the notes back on the desk and immediately stepped around the desk to head towards the cells. The moment he was in the door, he stopped still and swore. "Fuck. Why am I even still surprised?"

Stiles scampered off the bed, kicking Scott where he lay asleep on the floor and making him jerk awake, snorting and mumbling. "Oh, uh, hey, Dad! Mind, uh, bailing us out?"

Wordlessly, the sheriff turned around and walked out.

"Oh, okay... see you later, then! Heh... See, I _told_ you we should have called your Mom..."

*

So, Scott got bitten by a werewolf. That happened.

And he’d come into school the next morning, with wafts of wet dog pouring off him like damn waves of demon repellent, and it was all Stiles could do not to _shiver_ and just let off a stream of swear words and nice, fun rant about how _someone_ , either up there or down below was out to get him because _seriously?_ He had to share classes with this thing? He had to _hang out_ with this smell? And yes, yes he did, because Scott, poor, sweet, oblivious Scott would sooner die without him, and he was still Stiles’ best friend, even if he now... was slightly... odour-ly challenged.  

After the initial horror, shock, and humor of realizing that Scott had lost his humanity, to a _dog_ , a slight hint of fear had started to settle in. If he, Stiles, could see it – ha, see it? He could barely _ignore_ it – on Scott, then could Scott see – _him?_

But no fear. Scott had ambled straight up to him, saying he’d been bitten by a wolf.

_There aren’t even any wolves in California, Scott, god, bless you, how do you still exist? Seriously, it’s ridiculous..._

So apparently, ‘good’ luck _was_ something that still existed.

By being very, very careful to only inhale through his mouth, Stiles managed to make it through the corridor beside his best friend and the aura of dog that now surrounded him. As he passed Lydia Martin’s locker, he stuck his nose out and sniffed frantically, desperately trying to get her perfume stuck in his nose, because he felt like he had _fur_ stuck up there. _Wet_ fur.

Scott was looking at him weirdly when Stiles spun back around. “What?” With no immediate forthcoming answer, save for a snort of humor, Stiles continued, “Wow, you’re actually judging me for that. You haven’t gotten used to this, yet? Me, stalker. Her, crush. It’s a careful balance, I’ve got street cred to maintain, an image—”

Scott was smiling. _Keep smiling, dude. You’re the source of my unending_ agony _right now. Sure.  Enjoy the moment._

Finally entering the classroom and taking their seats, Stiles couldn’t help but smile with pride when he managed to sit still, and not nudge his chair as far away from Scott as possible. Hey, perhaps he was actually getting used to the smell! Great! Okay, so, thinking practically here, before Scott either a) impaled himself on his own claws, or b) impaled someone _else_ on his claws – preferably _not_ Stiles, though Mr. Harris wouldn’t be too bad an option... He’d have to find enough evidence of werewolfliness to convince Scott before the next full moon which was ... far, far too soon... ‘cause if he stated they were real _without_ evidence, Scott would think he was nuts... nuts-er. More nuts? Whichever.

“Pst! Hey, Stiles!”

Stiles jerked his head up, brain snapping out of the torrent of game plans it was currently drawing up. “You _still_ say ‘pst’?” he asked, “You realize we’re not _actually_ in a gangster movie, right?”

Scott frowned, then shook his head. “Nevermind. Are you wearing aftershave, or Axe or something?”

“...What?”

“You kinda smell of rotten eggs slightly.”

Stiles stared at him, jaw falling open.

Blinking, and backtracking _rapidly,_ Scott hurried to say, “But, but in a _nice_ way?”

Stiles didn’t deign that with a reply.

Sulphur and brimstone. Of course.

 _Fucking_ werewolves.

*

“ _Ex_ - _zork_ – uh, _eks_ - _orsizamus tee_ – ah for fuck’s sake!” Stiles yelled, hands slamming onto the side of the computer. “How the fuck do you—”

“Soft ‘c’, and a short ‘e’ in _te_.”

With a screech that hurt even _his_ ears (and he’d long given up denying the pathetic sounds he made), Stiles spun the chair around as quickly as possible, flailing and reaching for something that could be considered blunt and heavy enough to be lethal. Unfortunately, nothing presented itself, and Stiles ended up having his own highly fragile, bared, kung-fu shaped hands as his only defense against Beacon Hill’s official stalker, Derek Hale. “Dude, _stop_ with the home invasion! My dad is the sheriff! He has _guns!_ You’re a fucking _fugitive!_ Scott’s fault, by the way, totally not mine. And I swear if you do that unannounced ‘interrupting my private conversation’ thing one more time, you’re going to give me a heart-attack _!_ Also – how the _fuck_ do you know where I live?! _”_

Derek didn’t say anything, but remained leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes narrowed as he tried to read the computer screen over Stiles’ shoulder. “You’re aware exorcisms don’t work on werewolves, right? We’re shapeshifters, not demons.”

He sounded _amused_ , the bastard. “I’m aware,” Stiles replied, trying (and failing quite impressively) not to sound too haughty. “It’s – I’m practicing my Latin.”

Derek’s narrowed eyes turned from the screen to Stiles. “Beacon Hills offers Latin to sophomores?”

“I – it’s – it’s a hobby!” Stiles protested indignantly. _Why the hell am I defending this… just change the topic! Quick!_

“You’re aware Latin isn’t _spoken_ anymore—”

“Okay, Big Bad Wolf, you’ve made your point, I’m a weird person – now, is there a _reason_ you’re here?” Stiles cut in, swiftly minimizing the page he’d been on and spinning the chair back around. “Unless it’s just to practice your brooding skills, which, let me tell you, _not_ needed—”

“Last night,” Derek said, speaking loudly over Stiles, forcing him to shut up.

Stiles blinked, fear and confusion shooting through him. “Um, last night?” he asked, and, wow, that was an impressive number of octaves for his voice to rise. “What happened last night? I didn’t even _see_ you last night—”

“The full moon, idiot!” Derek was yelling now, standing free of the wall and actually stepping towards Stiles. Stiles swallowed. “If you and Scott _insist_ on dealing with the full moon alone, could you, do you think, at least manage to deal with it competently _?_ If I hadn’t been watching, Jackson would be your friend’s chew-toy by now.”

Now this was all entirely unfair. “Hey, _hey_ , we – well, I, at least, because I can’t speak for Scott – thought you were _dead_. That – alpha… thing… it _gutted_ you in front of me! Not pleasant! Nice to see you’re alive, by the way, and not… wolf jam, but we thought we _had_ to deal with the full moon alone. Okay? And I’d cuffed him to the fucking radiator! How was I to know he’d bust out?!”

“Cuffs?” Derek echoed, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Stiles, we had _spiked chains_ for the youngsters! Cuffs wouldn’t _begin_ to be enough!”

“And you don’t think, if I bought _spiked chains_ , my dad might hear of it? Everyone knows who I am, Derek, I’m the sheriff’s kid, handcuffs I can get away with, hard-core bondage? Not so much!”

 _Oh god I just called it bondage, no hush he probably won’t have realized_ –

An eyebrow fell, leaving just the one up, questioning Stiles’ choice of words.

 _Oh, well… worse things happen at sea._ He still blushed. Traitorous body…

“Next time,” Derek said, each word carefully enunciated and accompanied by a stab of Derek’s finger. “Find chains, without spikes if you must, and lock him down _hard_. Even better? _Find._ _Me_.”

Stiles didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. Because, although it was starting to occur to him that Derek’s help might not be so much of a bad thing, he knew it wasn’t his decision – it was Scott’s, god help them all.

“You might be good at research, Stiles,” Derek continued, taking the silence to mean that he needed to convince him, “but I’ve got experience. And I’m offering to _help_.”

“Yeah, okay, I’ll pass on the message,” Stiles said, nodding. He met Derek’s eyes, and when the werewolf nodded back, he knew the message was received, that Derek understood what he meant, _exactly_. Moment over, Stiles let normal service resume. “Now are you gonna stand around my room, looking broody all day, or…? ‘Cause, y’know, I’m busy; things to do, hobbies,” he said, waving a hand back over his shoulder at the computer.

Derek growled, and Stiles shrunk into his chair, spinning it back around to the screen and clicking the webpage with the exorcisms back open. Ignoring Derek as much as he was capable of, he reconsidered the Latin.  

 _Soft ‘c’, short ‘e’ …_ As Derek swung himself out of the window, and onto the roof, Stiles muttered, “ _Exorcizamus te—_ ”

His throat closed up, lungs stopped moving, heart stuttered, and every single nerve in his body felt like it was being pulled and twisted out of his skin. The world turned pitch black momentarily, as the darkness was dragged across his eyes, harder than he’d ever felt it before. Choking to a stop, Stiles pressed a hand to his throat, gasping, trying desperately to breathe through the holy force pressing down on him. The words juddered to a stop, and slowly, he was able to relax again.

Yeah. That worked. That exorcism was the real deal.

He’d woken up in a sweat, two nights previous, with the victorious screaming of demons echoing through his head. He didn’t know if it was a call to arms, if it was defeat, if it was the end of it – but he knew something had changed. His place here wasn’t stable, not anymore.

But he wasn’t going to fight. He knew that. He couldn’t do anything that would harm a single member of mankind, any more that he could walk downstairs right then, and shove a kitchen knife into his father’s heart. If a demon came to fetch him, he was going to make sure that they went down with him. He couldn’t risk leaving it in Beacon Hills. No way.

And now? Now, he was armed.

There was knocking on his door. “Stiles?” he heard his dad ask, swiftly followed by the creaking of his bedroom door’s hinges.

Hands flailing and brain spacing out, he slammed at the mouse until the window closed, before forcing a smile onto his face and turning to face his dad, just relaxing on the chair, casually, relaxed, s’all cool.

His dad stopped before he’d even started to talk, mouth open, eyes moving from Stiles’ ridiculously fake ‘chilling’ position, to the blank monitor screen, and then to the heavens.

And Stiles realized exactly what it now looked like. “Oh – uh – I wasn’t watching porn,” he said, shrugging nonchalantly. Then it occurred to him that would be _exactly_ what he’d say, if he _had_ been.

“Uh-huh,” his dad said, clearly not believing a word that came out of his mouth, and utterly avoiding his eyes as he made his swift exit. “Just came to ask about dinner, but – never mind.”

“No – I wasn’t watching porn!” Stiles yelled after him, half rising from his chair in his desperation to get the message across – but the door had already shut. Undeterred, Stiles spun the chair around again, still muttering, “I wasn’t watching—”

A sound, horribly akin to a low chuckle, reached his ears, and a shadow moved across his window that looked horribly like a werewolf jumping from his roof down into the back garden.

“I wasn’t… _fuck_.”

*

By the time he’d hit his 17th birthday, he’d sorted his life out.

It came down to this:

His name was Stiles Stilinski. He was the son of the Sheriff and his wife, deceased, and his best friend was Scott McCall, an ex-asthmatic werewolf with a nurse mother and an absent father. He was the cleverest in his class, after the strawberry blonde he had a crush on, and he had been diagnosed with ADHD at the age of seven. On full moons, he ran around and cooked for the local pack of werewolves. And he was a demon changeling.

And yeah, there were some other complications and twists and plot twists (and certain people who apparently didn’t know how to use a front door) but that was, essentially, it. Weird life – damned weird – but he enjoyed it. Some of the most. Bordering on most of the time.

And he’d _been_ enjoying it for the last fifteen minutes, driving with Chiddy Bang playing loudly and an open bag of hot curly fries open on the passenger seat, but then some nice creepy people in huge Land Rovers with tinted windows (and really, now, where’s the need to black out windows on a _Land Rover?_ ) had just decided to crash the party, and remind him that there’s a proverbial axe, and very _real_ gun, by his head.

Not that it’d do much. But it’s the _principle_ of the thing, and he likes his body without bullet holes, thankyouverymuch. Besides, the very same axe was over the heads of his friends, and, werewolf healing powers or not, he knew they wouldn’t be quite so unharmed if the hunters decided they meant business. 

And Stiles wasn’t sure if that made him scared, or furious.

For a second or two, he entertained the idea of driving straight into the barrier the Argents had created using their cars, but something told him his poor jeep might come off the worst. With an internal sigh, he swallowed his mouthful of fries and pulled his car to a stop. Handbrake, out of gear, and lock the car doors.

Stiles breathed out, forced his shoulders to relax, and settled in for what was probably going to be a really quite unnerving and possibly quite awkward conversation.

It wasn’t long before Chris Argent emerged from the shadows, crossbow firmly tucked under one arm and a strongman on each elbow. Stiles gave him a cheery wave, grinning with his lips pressed closed as he tried so hard to keep his eyes the plain, human brown, rather than the blackness that was threatening to cover them. If there was _anyone_ he needed to hide his not-so-humanness from, it was the Argents.

He kept his gaze fixed on Chris Argent as he made his way around the car, right to Stiles’ side, and tapped on the window with the point of the arrow still loaded in his crossbow. He was smiling. Stiles _hated_ it when the psychopaths smiled. He’d seen the movies. He knew what it meant.

But then, he was a demon, and he hadn’t yet barfed up pea soup. So that was something.

Still feeling like it was one heck of a bad idea, he started to wind down the window. “Hey, Mr. Argent!” he called, waving again, eyes hurting and jaw clenched from the strain of staying determinedly normal, smiling like this was entirely expected, being roadblocked by your best friend’s girlfriend’s dad and wannabe murderer of your... acquaintance, and best friend’s alpha. “Henchman one, henchman two,” he continued, nodding to the two strongmen. If this was the movie he was slowly story-boarding in his head, they’d be the first redshirts he’d have disemboweled...

Ick.

_Let’s try to avoid the horror movie ending to this meeting..._

“Stiles. Nice to see you.”

“Pleasure. As always. Always nice... meeting you in a darkened forest... blocking... the road... So, doing anything fun this weekend? It’s gonna be good weather for a picnic, I’ve heard.”

The smiles widened. Stiles tensed, eyes fixing back on the arrow point and preparing to come up with an excuse as to why he’d still managed to drive backwards _really fast_ with an arrow in his shoulder. Or neck. Or forehead... “Very funny, Stiles,” Chris Argent chuckled, causing Stiles to freak that little bit more. “Shouldn’t you be heading home? Like you said, it’s getting dark.”

“Uh, _yeah_ , I’m trying to,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes and gesturing towards the cars blocking the road. As his gaze turned skywards, he lost control for a second, and blackness flashed between his eyelids. By the time he looked back down to the hunters, though, he had it back under control, all the more so after the small burst of relief from the pent up rage and fear. “But, in case it had slipped your attention, there’s something _kind_ _of_ in my _way_?”

Chris Argent turned to look over his shoulder, eyebrows rising as if he’d _only just seen_ how his car and two others were _right across the road_. “Perhaps,” he said, turning back with a still scarily impassive and slightly smiling face, “it might be more prudent to take another road back. You said it yourself, dark woods aren’t the safest place to be, especially alone and in...” he paused, scanning the blue jeep, before continuing, “such an old car.”

 _Oh hell no, he did NOT just insult my jeep._ “First off, my car is _fine_ , thank you very much,” Stiles had to point out, priorities be fucked, “Second, I never said that, just heavily implied it, and third – congratulations, that was a full three and half minutes before you tried to threaten me away from my friends. Must be a new record. I’m sure you’re so proud. But believe it or not, I _do_ actually know how dangerous Hale and Co. is, going to school and hanging out with them for over a year kinda gives you a bit of an insight. So, as much as your thinly veiled threats are much appreciated, haha _not_ , I would really appreciate it if you would move your illegally parked vehicles so I can get out of your slowly graying hair.”

It was a genuine pleasure to see Chris Argent grind his teeth in response to something Stiles had said. “Kid—”

“You can stop waving that crossbow about, it’s really not going to do anything,” Stiles cut in, now starting to feel bored. Seriously, how often was he going to be put through this circus... once you got passed the pointy objects and the threatening psycho smiles, it was all the same. _I’ve met worse men than you in the Pit_ , Stiles wanted to tell him, _you’re a small fry trying to puff up your chest, and it’s really not working_.

For a good long minute, Chris Argent met his gaze, holding it steadily. Stiles met it evenly, still trying to fight the urge to show Chris Argent a touch of black. Just a flash. Eventually, he shrugged, and Stiles let his breath out between his teeth. “Okay, kid. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

 _Your warnings don’t count for shit_. Stiles didn’t acknowledge the favor, turning away from the Argents to start his car back up again, easing her into first gear as the center car moved off the road, leaving him a decent gap to get by. But he couldn’t just go, leaving an Argent with the last word. “Soon, Chris, you’re going to take all this too far,” he muttered, releasing the handbrake, and refusing to look at where the human hunters were probably laughing at him, at the jumped-up, over confident teenager, “I promise you, when you do, all the arrows and all the muscle cars in the world won’t be able to do a thing to help you.”

He heard someone laugh, deep and guttural. He pressed down on the accelerator, leaving before he did something he’d regret.

*

“Yo, homies!”

Five sets of glowing eyes turned to look at him. Scott half waved, before looking down at the map spread out on the floor between them all. Erica winked, Isaac grinned, and Boyd smirked. All pretty standard.

Derek stared at him impassively, blinked twice, then, too, looked back down at the map that was, apparently, more important than the arrival of Stiles Stilinski, the brains behind everything this sorry pack did. “You’re late,” the Alpha muttered out.

“Yeaaah, well, traffic. Whatcha gonna do?” Stiles sighed, walking around the gaggle of teenagers to the one empty space of floor left, between Scott and Big Boss Alpha himself. It wasn’t technically a lie, and when he wasn’t called out on it, he assumed he’d gotten away with it. “So, what’s the mystery today, gang?” he asked, shimmying into place, squeezing onto the floor between Scott’s knobby knees and elbows and the huge yard of personal space and death glares that perpetually surrounded Derek.

“Isaac thinks the Argents are back on the move again,” Derek muttered, eyes flickering over the map, darting between the pins shoved into place. “I know they’ve always got an eye here – that’s old news – but he thinks he saw one of their team in a car, _here—_ ”

“I don’t _think_ , I _know_ ,” Isaac protested, glaring, hands pressed down onto the floor and eyes gleaming, ever so slightly. “He had that _stench_ about him – silver and gunpowder and monkshood. And he was sitting there, on the side of the street, for a solid half an hour.”

“Did he see you?” Erica asked.

Isaac shook his head. “I was in the grocery store.”

“You _hid_ in the groceries, you mean?” Erica corrected, smirking.

“Okay, _okay,_ kids, everyone – just simmer down, everyone knows family fight night is Thursday.” Stiles had to half yell to get himself heard over the growling. “Okay, assuming Isaac was right—”

“I _am_ right—”

“I never said you weren’t! Okay, so he _is_ right – better? Okay? Good – which means...” he wafted his hands at Derek, motioning him to finish the sentence.

“Trouble.”

Stiles waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. He just sat there, staring down at the map, brooding, and being all-round unhelpful. “...Okay,” Stiles said eventually, giving in, “ _so_ , what do we – hold up, where’s Jackson?” He _knew_ it had been too quiet. The latest addition to the pack, the recently de-scaled kanima-turned-fluffy-werewolf, was missing from the group circle.

“Lydia,” the rest of the pack chorused.

Biting back a curse, Stiles rolled his eyes. “Aw, _seriously?_ Is he ever gonna bother showing his perfectly quaffed furry self to our little soirées?”

“I’m working on it,” Derek muttered.

“No! No,” Stiles yelled, waving a finger at him, only to pull it back and shove it safely under an armpit when Derek glared it. “No, you’re not going to ‘ _work’_ on it.”

“Why _not_?” Derek asked, turning his head his head to look at Stiles with _far_ too much sass and a perfected bitchface. Stiles felt some pride at that, knowing he’d been the cause of all the practice for it.

“Because you’ll _kill_ him! _Almost_ to death!”

“How do you even – ugh, either way, _I’m_ the alpha here, Stiles. Not you.”

Erica was giggling again, and Stiles could feel Scott’s grin like an _itch_ on the back of his neck. _Mommy and Daddy are fighting again_ , Isaac had told Erica the other day, when Stiles had started to berate Derek for making them sit on splintered and ashy floor. But he was going to be the bigger man, ignore the names, and be the one who actually _bothered_ about his health, thank you very much. _And_ the psychological torture Derek was no doubt trying to inflict on Jackson. “Yes, but I’m also the Sheriff’s son, and trust me when I say that _your_ methods of ‘working on’ something is _child abuse._ Just – send him a threatening text, or something, or – wait, wait, can we buy him a collar? Like, with ‘property of the Hale pack, if found, return to the burnt house on the hill’ written on it? And a bell? Can we get him a bell?”

He was still talking, but no one else was listening. Usually, this wasn’t a discouragement, but something in the way they’d all frozen, and were staring in the same direction told him their lack of attention was due to something more than lack of care about his persistent babbling.

“What?” he asked, nervousness starting to settle in. “What’re you looking at?”

When he didn’t get a reply, nothing but a flicker of Derek’s eyes across to his, and a shushing motion with his hands, Stiles closed his eyes and used his... _other_ senses.

Out the front of the house, in the trees... something bright, _things_ bright – souls, human, five – no, six, six humans... spreading out.

 _Ah, shit this can’t be good_.

His eyes flashed open, darting between the five werewolves around him, hoping one of them would actually bother to tell the human (okay, _almost_ human) something a bit more, something, preferably reassuring. “Um,” he whispered, eyes moving between Scott and Derek, “what’s—”

A flash of fear shot across Derek’s face, before his features twisted into those of the wolf side of him. He half rose, eyes wide, and yelled, “Get _down!”_

Not needing to be told twice, Stiles threw himself to the floor, hands reaching behind his neck, curling in as tight as he could – just in time to avoid the rain of bullets that went flying over his head, slamming through the old walls, sending splinters flying.

Something fell on him, and for a second he thought the house was collapsing around them, trapping them, suffocating and crushing them and he opened his mouth to yell to the others, to check they were okay – but then he felt the warmth, the hands holding his shoulders _down_ , the hot breath by his ear, and the familiar canine scent. “Scott?”

“ _Keep – down_ ,” came the growled reply. Not Scott. Derek.

Indignant, and his pride starting to puff out its chest, Stiles tilted his head up and hissed back, “I’m not stupid, you don’t _actually_ have to hold me down—”

Derek growled, head falling and pressing against his hands where they were pushing against Stiles’ back as a bullet shot past only inches away from his ear.

“You’re only making yourself a higher target!” Stiles continued to hiss, but he didn’t try to push Derek off. He knew it would be stupid.

“And you’re only human!” Derek hissed back.

...Awkward.

And – no, hold up—Derek wasn’t holding him down. He was _shielding_ him. Derek I-will-rip-your-throat-out-with-my-teeth was _protecting_ him. _Him_. Stiles. The hyperactive liability to his superhuman pack.

When he really didn’t have to.

But Stiles couldn’t tell him that. So he waited, the sound of the bullets becoming monotonous, consistent, fear only spiking when one came too close to hitting skin. “We can’t stay here, we’ve got to get them out,” Stiles muttered, hoping Derek would hear him over the splintering and gunshots.

There was a pause, and he opened his mouth to repeat the comment louder, before Derek eventually nodded. He reached across Stiles to shove Scott. “Get Stiles out of here,” he yelled to him, finally getting off Stiles and pushing him towards Scott. “Isaac, find Jackson – I don’t care _who_ he’s with or _what_ he’s doing, stay with him, make sure he’s _safe._ Erica, Boyd – _run_.”

“And you?” Scott asked.

Stiles could have answered for him. Situations like this, Derek seemed to think he only had one option. “I’m going to get you some time,” he said.

Without a pause, without their usually bitchy comments or picky arguments, the pack all nodded, clawed hands pressed to the floor, ready to up and run when given a signal. Scott was tightening his hand around Stiles’ wrist, slowly moving to position himself between his friend and the hunters. _I can’t let him get hurt in my place_. In return, Stiles got ready to pull Scott level with him.

He met Scott’s gaze, and when his wolfed-out friend nodded forwards and mouthed, “Out the back,” Stiles nodded back.

“ _Go!”_

Used to waiting on the blow of a whistle, Scott, Stiles and Isaac were up and running before the word had fully left Derek’s mouth. For a second or two, as they left the house, splinters falling from their clothes and blood dripping from grazed hands, the three ran in line together. Once they were out into the forest, Isaac looked across at them, and nodded, before running off to the right.

The gunfire had stopped.

“Aww, that can’t be good,” Stiles muttered, trying to look back over his shoulder – Erica, Boyd, Derek, what had –

But Scott was tugging on his wrist, dragging him forwards.

“Come _on!_ We’ve gotta _go!”_

Stiles managed to see something – one of the two muscle men who’d held him up, minute earlier.

The Argents hadn’t been trying to stop him, or keep him out. They’d been getting ready to keep them all _in_. _But don’t say I didn’t warn you_ , Chris had said.

“ _Fuck—_ ”

“Stiles, _run!”_

He tried to move, stumbling backwards for a second or two, eyes stuck on the rifle the man was carrying, before he finally managed to turn, get his feet right, flat, moving, and _ran_.

Scott was ahead of him, sprinting flat out without the worry of exhaustion that ordinary humans had.

And, sure, yeah, usually Stiles kept up that pretence of wearing out, running on adrenaline, but – the barrel pointed in his direction was kind of an incentive to _run_.

It didn’t matter. Stiles might know the woods better than the Argent, might be a fast runner, might even be able to see in the dark better than him, but the Argents had good aim, and in the masking blackness of the night he couldn’t have looked any different than Isaac, or Scott. The hunter probably just saw two werewolf kids, and he shot at them.

The first bullet slammed into the tree just to the left of Stiles, causing him to yelp and nearly trip over the tree root he was trying to jump over, and Scott to look back over his shoulder. He met Stiles’ gaze, mouth open and eyes wide with shock, before turning and _running_.

“I can’t _run that fast_ you _insensitive bag of fur—”_

The second bullet, because Stiles’ life was _just that great_ , sliced a deep line across his stomach as he turned sideways to dodge a tree.

He lost his footing, falling over a log and slamming into a tree, and hand moving on reflex to clutch at his stomach. He swore under his breath when he felt the blood pouring between his fingers. Thinking fast, and watching as Scott’s back vanished further into the distance – for once Stiles was grateful his best friend was an unobservant dick – he tugged at the strip of his top that was hanging from the front by a few blood-drenched threads, pulling it off, and using it as a sponge against his wound. Scott _couldn’t_ see how much he was bleeding; he’d never be able to explain it away. He’d just have to hope that the skin had started to heal over by the time they got somewhere safe enough to stop running...

Speaking of stopping running...

Stiles pushed himself off the tree, shaking out one hand and grimacing at the blood splatters flying from it, covering the tree. The Argents would think they’d hit a werewolf, going by the amount of blood... no human could survive such blood loss.

 _Then it’s really a damn good thing I’m not entirely human_.

He forced himself to walk, then jog, then flat out run again, ignoring the blood still seeping from his stomach, the tearing of skin as his torso twisted when he swung his arms to move faster. Knowing that no one could see him, he let the darkness fall over his eyes, the strength of the Pit fill him, helping him see, helping him run, helping him stop the blood from falling away quite so fast.

_Damn, if I moved like this on the pitch... move over, Jackson, Stilinski coming through..._

He could see the road now, could just about make out Scott running back and forth under the glare of the streetlights. He slowed down, blinked, and used the remains of his top to wipe away any droplets of blood that had seeped out. Slowing to a walk, he zipped up his hoodie to hide the wound before yelling, “Scott! Here! I’m here, I’m okay, it’s fine...” _out of breath, out of breath..._

“Stiles!” Scott ran towards him, at his side in seconds, reaching out to touch him, grab his shoulder, his hand – Stiles winced at the exact same moment Scott realized what he was smelling. “Is that – oh my god you’re _bleeding—_ ”

“Eh, a bullet scratched my side, that’s all,” he lied, shrugging casually. “I’m fine.”

“Let me have a look, I’ll just check—”

He was moving his hand to the zipper on Stiles’ hoodie, wanting to see the wound for himself. Oh, no. No, no, not happening. “Just check what? You’re a _vet’s_ assistant, Scott, not a doctor – if it needs _your_ help, then I’m in a lot more trouble than a bullet could cause.”

That stung Scott, Stiles could tell, but he forced himself to believe it was for the best as Scott nodded, not meeting his eyes, and stepped back. “Sure, of course.”

“And besides, I was wounded way back there,” Stiles continued, shoving a thumb over his shoulder. “And I ran here, remember? I think that if I was going to bleed to death, I would have done so by now.” _Go with it go with it please please go with it..._

Scott was nodding more, accepting his logic, as he always had. “D’you think we lost them? Have you heard from the others? Are they safe?”

“Oh, yeah, I had a quick chat with Derek as I slalomed the trees  back there – _no_ , dumbass, I haven’t heard from the others,” Stiles said, and fear of both being _shot_ again, that the others had been shot, _and_ of being found out to be hellspawn were probably making him slightly snappier than he had any reason to be, but he couldn’t really _care_. “I was kinda hoping _you’d_ have heard from them, whilst standing here, waiting, with nothing to do, possibly have called one of them—”

“My phone must have fallen out of my pocket,” Scott muttered, hands absently patting his pockets, and Stiles wanted _to strangle him_. You don’t just _lose_ your phone, and you _don’t_ let it fall out of your pocket when running for your life, that’s just survival 101!

“We can’t just _leave_ them, what if they’re wounded, or bleeding to death, or being wolf-napped, and we’re just sitting at home dotting the last i’s on out homework? Not cool, man!”

Scott licked his lips, and nodded. “I’ll go back and see,” he said, turning to look back into the forest.

Implication clear: human people go home. Once again, Stiles felt protests bursting to be spoken at the tip of his tongue – he could hide better in the shadows, move quieter, see just as well... _but Scott can’t know._ Fuck. 16 years, and this shit was finally starting to get old.

 _You_ had _to go and become a werewolf, didn’t you..._

“I’ll cover for you,” Stiles said eventually, and when Scott looked sharply across at him, stunned and ready to argue, he expanded, exasperated, “With _your mom_ , God. Oh – and my jeep—” he pulled his keys from his pocket, chucking them across to Scott. “Once all the blood and bullet-dodging stuff’s all finished, mind driving her back to mine? Kinda gonna need my ride to school, or Dad—”

“Got it,” Scott cut in, shoving the keys into his pocket. “You okay to walk back?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, grinning and beginning to do lunges, flinging his arms back and forth in mock stretches, “I’ll jog. The exercise’ll probably do me good. I mean, it’s not like I just sprinted a good mile or so...”

Scott laughed, waving once before running off, taking only three strides before he fell forwards into the weird wolf-springing-bunny-hop running the werewolves all seemed to do.

“And don’t drop my keys!” Stiles yelled after him. He didn’t get a response, and hadn’t expected one – he just waited until Scott was entirely out of sight, before hesitantly opening his hoodie enough to get a look at the wound.

It was still bleeding, slightly, thin droplets of blood trickling from the torn flesh – that still hadn’t started to heal. Stiles had to swallow twice to stop himself throwing up – there was a _reason_ he hadn’t wanted to saw Derek’s arm off. And you’d think this nice new environment of persistent fresh corpses would have upped his tolerance for gore, but apparently not.

Mind you, he had no evidence that it wasn’t just _his_ gore that grossed him out. It’s not often you got to stare, fully conscious, at your own ripped open stomach.

He retched, raising his head and pressing a hand to his throat. “Oh this is wrong. This is so very very wrong this is – _egh_ ,” he gagged again, bending double, forcing himself to take deep breaths. “Home,” he breathed, “home, and bandages, and sleep, and tomorrow it’ll be fine and I won’t have to even think about it...”

Plan figured out, he zipped the hoodie back up again, picked a direction, and started to jog.

*

His dad was in by the time he got back, already changed and on the couch with a beer. “Where’ve you been?” he yelled as soon as Stiles pulled the door closed.

In the bright, clear light of indoors, the smudges of red on Stiles’ skin were even clearer, screaming ‘failed psycho!’ to the world – and it wasn’t just that; his skin was almost perfectly white, no veins showing, no tint of pink. He had no blood. He was running on demonic power alone. “Uh, Scott’s,” Stiles called back, eyes transfixed on the back of his hands, fear starting to tug strings. “Uh... chemistry project... tired now... think I’ll go get some sleep...”

“You’ve eaten, then?”

“‘Course,” Stiles lied, absently rubbing at a smudge of blood with his thumb. It didn’t budge. “His mom cooked—”

“Jesus, Stiles, you’re so pale!”

He hadn’t even heard his father move, let alone walk to the hallway. He jerked his head up to see him standing in the doorway to the living room, beer bottle hanging loosely in his hands as he stared, opened mouthed, at his son.

Stiles’ first reaction was to hide his hands behind his back, to edge away slowly and get out of sight – but it was too late now, and it’d just make his dad suspicious. “Am I? Eh, must be exhaustion,” he sighed, slumping slightly, putting a hand out to lean against the wall as he kicked off the Converses he was wearing. As his dad stared at his hands – how could he ignore them, the faded red covered from the tips of his fingers to halfway down his forearm – he forced himself to say, nonchalantly, “Food coloring. Harris just _loves_ thinking up ways to torment us, I swear...” He didn’t wait for his dad to say anything else, hoped he wouldn’t, as he pushed himself away from the wall and started to walk straight to the stairs, straight to _bed_.

“Stiles, are you sure you’re ok—”

“I’m _fine_ – just let me get to sleep, yeah?” he pushed past, ignoring the hand his dad offered even though he wanted nothing more than to take it, let his dad just hold him until he felt better – _human_ – again. He took the stairs two at a time, and headed straight for the bathroom. He flung the door open and was by the cupboard in two strides, flicking it open with one hand and grabbing the first aid kit they always kept there with the other.

He didn’t stand in front of the mirror, even though it would probably have been better to see the wound, but instead perched on the edge of the bath, holding the kit under one arm as he carefully unzipped the hoodie. Some of the material had started to stick to the wound, blood soaking into it, but thankfully the material was so dark you couldn’t tell.

_Gonna have to throw it away. I swear, Derek’s gonna have to start paying me an  expenses fee at this rate..._

He wasn’t sure if, even with the added demon strength, the body would be able to fight off infection or if he’d just be moving around in a rotting body _ad infinitum_ , so he pulled the bottle of antiseptic out of the kit first, effectively drenching a pad in the stuff and then rubbing it over the edges of the cut. He had _no_ idea if this was actually going to do anything, and he was _really_ wishing he’d taken that first aid course Scott had gone on. When the cut looked... wet enough? Yeah, no, that was probably fine, he started to pull out bandages and tape, bandaging up the cut the best he could.

He had a feeling that, in an ordinary situation, the cut would probably need stitches. Yeah, haha, no. He wasn’t going to stab himself any more than he had to, thanks.

When he finished, he grabbed his hoodie and stood up, stretching a bit to test the sticking power of the tape, and risked a look in the mirror.

He looked like something out of a Frankenstein movie. Hands still drenched in red, skin about the same color as the magnolia walls, and stomach a patchwork of blood and alcohol stained bandages. Nice. Handsome as ever, Stilinski.

It took him longer to clean his hands than it had to patch himself up. By the time he’d finished, he could hear his dad in the kitchen, packing up and ready to come upstairs. Kicking the first aid kit closed and chucking it into the cupboard – as quiet as he always was – he grabbed his hoodie and crept across the landing into the safety of his room. He turned off the light, and waiting just behind the door, listening as his dad walked by... shut the door to his room.

Breathing out in relief, Stiles threw his hoodie onto the back of his chair and flopped back onto his bed. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, flipping it unlocked and holding it above his head as he checked for messages. Two. The first, utterly predictably, from Scott.

_Evry1 fine – Isaac dsn’t want 2 c Jackson evr again n Derek is pissed @ Argents n Peter bt no casualties – u wer prob worst off_

Stiles snorted. _More than you know..._ He sent a quick reply back, thanks for the update, be good to my poor jeep, etc.

The second text, completely unbelievably, was from Derek.

‘Cause, well, Stiles knew in _theory_ that Derek had a cell phone, and that Derek had demanded they all gave him their numbers, but – the idea that he actually _used_ it just seemed like picturing a grandma wearing an Ice watch, or a gold sequined mini skirt... okay, not quite that bad, but... _near_ that. It made more sense for him to communicate in smoke signals, or sending woodland animals out with notes tied around their necks, or something.

But – no, this seriously was a text from Derek Hale.

_Scott told me that you went home, wounded. Thought I’d tell you the update myself. Boyd got shot in the leg, but as it was a normal bullet he’s fine. I suspect it’s due to Peter’s return that Chris is ignoring the treaty, so I will be speaking to him tomorrow. Do NOT push yourself if you have bloodloss. Yes, I think you’re that stupid. And I WILL ground you._

Okay, forget text. Essay. Yeah, essay was more accurate.

Stiles had to re-read it about three times, to try and make sense of what, exactly, had just happened to him. Okay, that Derek would want to pass on the details himself made sense – especially when comparing _this_ text to Scott’s – but why _text_? Why not just ambush him through the window? Maybe he was trying to be... normal?

Deciding he didn’t have enough data, Stiles shoved that theory aside.

Boyd would be fine. He ate bullets for breakfast.

Peter... wouldn’t be as fine, if Derek had his way. But Peter was more of a snake than Jackson, he’d survive. And Stiles, somehow, never could find it in himself to protect Peter from Derek’s over-controlling tendencies as he did with the others.

As for _pushing_ himself – ha! Yeah, right. As he was technically dead from bloodloss, working out wasn’t exactly high on his agenda. For that matter – no way could he get changed for lacrosse practice like this, not with Scott and Isaac pestering him to make sure it was okay. They were almost as bad as Derek, when it came to being protective to the wee human in the pack.

It took him a minute to even decide _if_ he was going to reply or not. Eventually, he just typed out, _you’re not my real dad_ , grinning as he clicked ‘send’.

Chucking his phone onto his bedside table, he shimmied out of the bloodied jeans, kicked them off the bed and slid under the duvet.

*

“Dude! You’re _so_ lucky you got to go home last night, Derek was on the _warpath._ I mean, it wasn’t like anyone got hurt – we found a shit ton of blood in the woods, but Boyd says he didn’t go near there and none of the rest of us got hurt, so it must have been a hunter, but Derek’s still gone after Peter today _—_ ”

Stiles let the words wash over him, as he pulled books out of his bag and shoved them into his locker. Some small part of him wept for the really quite beautiful organization system he’d set up his first day. It had lasted for about two classes, before speed, homework, and Reese’s cups wrappers had ruined it all.

“—I don’t want to be near _either_ of them for, like, a _day_ after Derek finally gets his hands on him. He looked like he wanted to kill him. Again!”

“Well it _is_ kinda all Peter’s fault,” Stiles had to grudgingly admit, throwing the chemistry textbook in and fist-pumping when a whole chunk of it bent backwards and creased. “We had that kinda don’t-bad-touch-my-guys-and-I-won’t-bad-touch-your-guys peace... thing... between Derek and Chris for a while, before Peter started parading around again. Peter _did_ kill Kate. Like, in _front_ of Allison. You think Chris should be happy about that?”

“Allison’s over it—”

“Wow, you really are just as dense a boyfriend as you are as a best friend,” Stiles said, smirking at Scott’s affronted snort. “Allison might be _saying_ she’s over it, but you don’t _get over_ seeing someone you care about bleed to death right in front of you. And even if she has – yeah, well dads can be strangely protective about their kids, who’da thought?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Scott muttered, biting his lip as he thought.

Stiles rolled his eyes. Screw politeness, it was Scott. If he couldn’t deal, he’d have left long ago. “Oh, stop angsting in front of me, I’m getting heartburn just looking at you. And besides, that’s Greenberg’s locker you’re leaning on.” He grinned as Scott jumped up from it, glaring at the blue metal like he expected it to lick him. “Well, whilst you’re sorting out your girly feelings, me and my manliness are going to go to the men’s changing rooms and talk man stuff to coach.” At the bemused, and slightly horrified look on Scott’s face, Stiles elaborated with a sigh, “I’ve gotta explain that I can’t go to practice today.” Sometimes, he just felt that Scott didn’t appreciate his eloquence.

“Why?”

“Um, possibly because _I got shot last night?”_ Stiles hissed. C+ for interrogation, but D- for attention, Scott.

“Oh, shit, yeah – are you okay?”

Okay, and an A+ for genuinely caring. “I’m fine, I just don’t want to faint from bloodloss when chucking a ball at a goal opens it back up again.”

“Okay,” Scott said, nodding, and that was that. “I’m gonna go find Allison and head to homeroom a bit early,” he said, pushing his schoolbag higher up his shoulder. “See you there, yeah?”

“Mm-hm.”

Scott waved over his back as he jogged off, probably already trying to pinpoint the sound of his girlfriend’s heart amidst the entire student body. Starting to plan in his head exactly what he’d say to Finstock, Stiles shut his locker and spun the dial until it was at zero.

He ran into Isaac in the corridor, who stopped him to check he was okay, moving a hand as if to raise Stiles’ shirt to check the wound, just as Scott had – but the instant Stiles brought up Jackson’s name, the kid started to groan, waving Stiles by without another word.

_Oh, Jackson, you and your libido. Always so reliable, you bastard._

This early in the morning, the changing rooms were entirely empty, not so much as a single bag hanging anywhere. “Uh, Coach?” Stiles called, peering around the lockers and making his way to where Coach’s office was, at the back of the changing rooms. “It’s Stilinski – I was, uh, wondering if I could possibly be excused from practice this afternoon-”

His eyes returned from where they’d been looking into the far corner, by the showers, back to Coach Finstock’s office to suddenly see him standing there, in the doorway. “Stilinski,” he said slowly, lips sliding into his trademark sideways grin, “So it’s _Stilinski_ now, is it? Wow, that name’s almost _cute._ ”

Stiles’ hands grabbed at the bag straps on his shoulder, fingers looping beneath them, nails digging into the fabric. “You’re not Coach Finstock.”

“Wow, _Stilinski_ ,” the _thing_ in the Coach said, stepping forwards. Stiles stepped back, slowly removing the extra weight of his bag from his back. He had a feeling that soon it’d just be getting in his way. “That takes a lot more intelligence to figure out than I’d expected from a worm like you,” the thing was saying, still grinning. He brought an arm out from behind his back, fist clenched tight around a lacrosse stick.

“What can I say, high school does wonders for your IQ,” Stiles rushed out. “And you’d think possessing the Coach would give you better technique, your grip on that stick is appalling, you’re not going to be able to catch anything holding it like that.”

“Oh, really?” the thing laughed, the usual goofy laugh of the Coach twisted and making Stiles feel sick with fear. He could feel the attack coming, any second now... “Perhaps. But I, personally, think it’s still good enough to catch you.”

It was such a cliché, Stiles saw the move coming a mile off, dodging just in time to avoid the head of the lacrosse stick slamming into the side of his head. He flung his bag off his back and ran forwards, around the side of the demon in his Coach. He wasn’t quite so lucky with the backswing, though. Just as he turned to face the demon, crouched and trying to be ready, the stick slammed into his side, causing it to crack and sending him flying into a row of lockers. They fell over like skittles beneath him.

As the tape on the bandages covering his wound ripped away, and the newly formed scabs tore apart, he couldn’t stop himself cursing with pain, one hand instinctively pressing to it, trying in vain to hold the bandages in place.

From the blood that came away on his fingers, _through_ his shirt ( _not joking about expenses, Derek_ ), he’d guess it was too late.

“D’aww, that looks _painful,_ ickle Stilinski,” the demon tutted, swinging the cracked stick in one hand, head tilted to one side with mock pity. “You need to learn to take better care of your meatsuits. How old is that _thing_ you’re wearing, anyway – sixteen? Seventeen? You must have jumped that bag of flesh when it was, what, a year old?”

“Ten months,” Stiles bit back, spitting out a lump of blood he’d drawn from his lip as he’d hit the lockers.

“A baby? Bless! But it’s time to come home now, ickle Stilinski. Daddy needs new playthings.”

Stiles wasn’t surprised. He’d figured there could only be one reason for a demon to arrive in Beacon Hills. He’d stopped listening for any calls to war the instant he’d remembered why he was up here, because if he knew anything it was that he wasn’t going to do a damn thing to help bring Lucifer to earth. If he had the choice, he’d do the exact opposite. “Sorry,” he said, pushing himself to his feet, shaking blood off his hand just like he had the night before. “You’re not gonna take me back to the Pit. Azazael can go to Disneyland for all I care, he’s not getting my help in this. I’d rather die.”

“Die? Why, I _do_ so love making wishes come true.” The demon laughed, stepping forwards only slightly slower than Stiles was trying to back away. It didn’t matter, anyway – the only place Stiles could back away _to_ was the corner. He was trapped.

Behind the demon, the door to the changing rooms slid open, completely silently. One clawed hand curled around the edge of it, and one glowing golden eye blinked in the gap.

Just when you think things _can’t get any worse..._

“Why, didn’t you get the memo, ickle Stilinski?” the demon was saying, laughing as it swung the lacrosse stick at Stiles again, the tip passing inches from his chest. Stiles kept his eyes on him, not daring to look at Scott. _Let him just think it’s a fight between two enemies – a monster and a traitor – for God’s sake stay out of this, Scott, you’re beyond not being ready to deal with a full-strength demon –_ “Azazel’s dead. No, we’ve got a _new_ king in the pit – and he’d _really_ _love_ a word with all of ol’ Yellow Eye’s faithful followers...” the Coach’s lopsided grin fell to a smirk, and a coating of red covered his eyes.

Behind him, Scott had stepped into the changing room, fangs bared and claws outstretched. _Fuck_.

“King? Sorry, man, wrong country – we’re all anarchists here,” Stiles replied through gritted teeth. He needed to tell Scott to get _out_ , without even showing he was _there_ –

The lacrosse stick stopped moving, and the demon laughed. “You think I’m deaf, kid?” he asked, and all hope fell away from Stiles like lead. “If I couldn’t hear his footsteps, I’d be able to _smell_ him.”

Scott sprang, claws aimed at the demon’s throat.

Stiles closed his eyes against the sight. He knew Scott wasn’t fast enough. He was just a werewolf, and a beta at that.

“Stiles—”

Instinct – near a decade of having the reflex ingrained into him – opened his eyes at the sound of Scott’s pleading. He was on his knees in the center of the room with the demon standing tall and unharmed behind him, still smiling, red eyes still burning, hand curled around Scott’s throat. The demon raised one hand lazily, and the door slammed shut.

He could see it in Scott’s eyes, the moment he realized how out of his depth he was. Supernatural strength he’d fought against before – but the unknown force that had shut the door was beyond him.

_Stupid, stupid Scott, why couldn’t you have forgotten about me and stayed with Allison..._

“Leave him alone, he’s got nothing—”

“To do with this? _Please_. He’s here looking for you, isn’t he?” The demon leaned forwards, sniffing Scott with exaggeration, before pretending to retch. “Ugh! What a barbaric stench. And there I was, just thinking you’d got a nice pet dog to go with your nice white picket fence. No – _you’ve_ got yourself a pack of trained werewolves! Do they roll over for you? Have you trained them properly, or do they still piddle on the carpet?”

He couldn’t even look at Scott. “Please,” he begged, spreading his arms out and stepping forwards, away from the lockers lying smashed open on the floor around him. “Please. Kill me. Take me back to the Pit – whichever. Anything. Just let him go. You weren’t sent after him.”

“No, but you can never have too many fur coats.”

“ _Please_.” It was all he could hope for that the demon would rather follow the orders he’d been given, than waste time on something as small as a beta wolf. If he’d thought he could still pray to God, he would have.

Apparently someone, somewhere, was listening. The demon cocked his head to the side, grinning, before releasing Scott’s neck with a flourish. “See? Surrender wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Stiles didn’t answer. He didn’t move as the demon stepped around Scott, moving forwards to where Stiles waited –

Four steps away, and Stiles swung his left hand in, focusing on every instinct and everything he’d taught himself as he moved books back and forth in his room. It worked – with a gasp of fury, or disbelief, the demon flew into the row of lockers to his left, bending doors and snapping a few off their hinges.

“You bitch—”

“Leave,” Stiles tried to command, hoping his voice didn’t sound as uncertain as he felt. “I’ve done my research. Trust me. You can find anything on Google if you type the right thing in. You think I wasn’t prepared for something like this? I’ve been waiting over a _decade_ for one of you bastards to try something! I’d learned seven exorcisms by heart before I was even _ten_. If you don’t leave that body, me, and my friend alone _right now_ , I swear, I’ll send you straight back to hell.”

The demon laughed. He wasn’t taking him seriously, Stiles knew it. He wouldn’t, in its place. “Exorcism?” it chuckled, wiping blood from its face and lying there, quite comfortable, against the tangle of lockers. “Bitch, as much as you like to dream that you’re just a meatsuit like the rest of them, an exorcism will drag you back down as much as it will me.”

“You sure about that? ‘Cause I’m not,” Stiles said. And he’d won then, he could see it, the sudden slackness of its face. If there’s anything a demon fears most, it’s being forced back onto the very racks it takes so much delight tying people to. “And it’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“You wouldn’t—”

 _Google, you’ve never let me down before_ – “Exorcizamus te—” The moment the Latin left his lips, he felt the shadows cover his eyes, the darkness, and hook pulling at his gut.

At his feet, the demon writhed, the red eyes narrowing at him. “You _wouldn’t—_ ”

“Omnis immundus spiritus—”

It spat at his feet, scowling one last time before throwing back his head and opening his mouth. Black smoke poured out, billowing through the room, rising to the ceiling and passing through it, out of sight.

The release of the exorcism was like twenty hits of weed – his head felt light, chest open, and his hands were shaking. The blackness fell from his eyes easily, the final step in being able to believe he wasn’t under threat anymore. “ _Jesus_ that was close,” he breathed, sagging against the locker right by what was now, finally, Coach’s head, and Coach’s head alone. Speaking of...

He looked down at the coach by his feet. “Eesh, he doesn’t look so good,” he said, crouching down beside the prone body of Finstock. “I think he’s okay, though – he’s probably just unconscious.” He pressed two fingers to Coach’s neck, feeling for a pulse – he found it, eventually, but it was weak. “Yeah, he’s unconscious. I think he’s gonna be fine – if we get him into his chair, hopefully he’ll think it was all just a dream, or, or something, because what human would believe _that_ just happened, right?” Forcing the grin to stay in place, he finally turned to look at Scott. He hadn’t moved from where the demon had forced him to his knees, and was staring at Stiles. For the first time in years, Stiles couldn’t have said what his best friend was thinking. “Right?”

Scott didn’t say anything. He didn’t look like he _could_. And finally, Stiles could piece together the expression on his best friend’s face. It had taken him this long, because he’d never seen it aimed at him before, ever.

It was sheer terror.

Not terror at what Stiles had done, Stiles knew that. Scott himself did worse things almost daily, now. He’d seen Stiles Molotov Peter.

The only thing he was terrified about was of how Stiles had either lied to him, betrayed him, or was lost to him. He was scared of what Stiles _was_.

“Jesus,” Stiles breathed, strength sagging from him. Almost without thought, slid to the floor, sitting almost exactly opposite Scott. “You can’t be scared of me, man,” he begged, holding his head in his hands. If it fell apart now – if he _lost_ all this – “You’re my best friend, man, you’ve been my best friend for _years_ – I can’t have you scared at me, I _can’t_. Please.” But Scott wasn’t saying anything, wasn’t _moving_ – “I owe you the truth, I owe you so much I _know_ that, but I need you to trust me. If _you_ don’t, then no one...” What could he say, _how_ could he get through to him...

Perhaps he couldn’t. There was blood on Scott’s neck, bruises forming quicker than they were healing because of _Stiles’_ silence. Stiles was a _demon_. Friends and family weren’t part of the package deal. Perhaps this was it...

“No. _No._ Scott, you _know_ me, for God’s sake I _know_ you do – you’ve seen me fall into pools drunk, I can’t run ten feet without tripping over something, I can’t be _dangerous!_ Hey – hey, remember when you dared me to inhale those ridiculous fumes in the chemistry room? And in practice afterwards, I was so convinced I had the ball that I kept running around like a, a demented chicken, trying to throw it to Jackson and Matt? And—and you still think _I’m_ dangerous?”

Scott blinked. And, slowly, he relaxed, shoulders falling forwards and a hand rising to rub his neck. “It wasn’t Jackson and Matt – it was Greenberg.”

Stiles’ mouth fell open. “ _Seriously?_ Why didn’t you tell me – oh _gods—_ ”

As Scott stared at him blankly, eyes unwavering and wary, Stiles sighed out and rubbed his face. _Priorities. Right. Damn, I need more Aderall for this shit..._ “Sorry. Yeah. An explanation. But – just promise me, you’ll give me the benefit of the doubt. Whatever I say, just – don’t jump to conclusions, okay? I need you to trust me, when I say I’m really, _really_ not dangerous.”

“Not _dangerous?_ You used _Coach_ to knock over a row of lockers with nothing but a wave of your _hand—_ ”

“Not dangerous to you,” Stiles amended hurriedly, “Or my dad, or Allison, or Derek, or – or anyone good, okay? And that wasn’t Coach, you must know that.”

Scott’s eyes flickered across to where Finstock was sprawled, before darting back to watch Stiles. He still wasn’t ready to move, Stiles realized with a pang of guilt. “It was... something like me.”

“You’re not human.”

“No.” There wasn’t any point denying it anymore.

He waited as Scott lowered his eyes slightly, thinking it through. Eventually he nodded. “How... not human, are you?”

“There’s a scale?” Scott narrowed his eyes, and Stiles raised his hands, wincing. “Okay, sorry, stupid question. Um... just slightly less human than you. I guess you could say I’ve deteriorated, rather than been transformed. Kind of... _lost_ my humanity, instead of having it morphed into part-wolf.” He was procrastinating, he knew, avoiding the _name_ , the real description of why he wasn’t human. Scott knew it too, he could see it in how Scott was watching him nervously, suspiciously – but with slightly more hope than before. “I... ahh, I have no idea how to... Okay. Well, for starters, that blood, the shit ton of blood you found in the woods after last night?”

Scott nodded slowly.

“That was mine. The bullet, it sliced a line across my stomach, pretty much cutting it open. By the time I got home, if I was human, I would have bled to death.” He was doing this on purpose, trying to show Scott the benefits of his lack of humanity, not wanting to throw him into the deep end. It was his one chance.

And at the horror on Scott’s face – horror that he’d almost _lost_ Stiles completely – he was hoping that the slight manipulation of the facts was working in his favor.

“And the first day you came to school, all werewolfed up after Peter bit you? You asked if I was wearing bodyspray or something, because I smelt of rotten eggs, in, quote, ‘a _nice_ way’?”

“You still _do,_ ” Scott muttered, wrinkling his nose, and a hand rising to waft at the air in front of him. “What – d’you have to sleep in garbage or something?”

“What? No! What the hell do you think I am, a _goblin_ or something?” Stiles yelled, disgusted. “Dude, _no_ , I do _not_ sleep in rotten eggs. No. _No_. I just... smell like them. That smell? That’s what my lot smell like.” Okay, perhaps not a benefit, but better than any _other_ facts he could say... and, hopefully, he’d be able to make Scott laugh with this one. He usually could, if he wanted to.

The disgust and pity on Scott’s face was doing _nothing_ for his ego. “You smell like rotten eggs?” he echoed, sounding very... off-put.

“Oh, yeah, nice, rub it in, thanks,” Stiles muttered, wriggling his shoulders and crossing his arms, affronted. He didn’t miss the slight twist to Scott’s lips, how he slid to a more comfortable position. “And it’s _brimstone_ , I’ll have you know,” he corrected, trying to sound as dignified as he could.

“I’ll try to remember that in the future,” Scott said, and yeah, he was definitely smiling now.

“ _Thank_ you,” Stiles replied, “the courtesies never hurt anyone.”

“Yeah, but if I forget them you might fling me into a locker or something,” Scott chuckled. Stiles shrugged, utterly immodestly.

He didn’t let an awkward silence settle into place, before saying, “So – we good? You okay?”

“I guess.” Scott smiled at him, meeting his eyes without fear for the first time since he’d opened the door. “But – you still haven’t told me what you are.”

Crap. “That’s ‘cause I’ve been avoiding it,” Stiles admitted. “Uh – we’ve, uh, ha – had a bit of bad press,” he confessed, nodding to Finstock. “Just—”

“It’s okay, Stiles. I promise, I’ll still see you as you. Okay?” And he looked sincere, naïvely honest, in a way only Scott ever could. “Like you said – you’re my best friend. I’ll trust you.”

He’d asked Scott to trust him – the most he could do was trust him in return. He licked his lips, looking down to the floor, before he finally started speaking. “Just over 100 human years ago, I sold my soul to save my family from destitution. When I died, I went to hell.”

Scott gasped, but Stiles ignored him.

“And I became a demon.”

*

Crowley checked his watch, and shuffled his bum about on the boot of the car. There were reasons he liked punctuality.

But he liked being dramatic more.

He’d been waiting since sunrise, having no idea when the two tall streaks of daddy-issues and pent-up rage were planning on leaving, and also having had barely enough patience when his messenger boy had returned to him, _empty handed_ , to not simply barge in there and tip them out of their bug-ridden beds.

But he’d decided for a little drama, and a bit of decorum.

He wanted to do this right, after all. He needed the waste of smoke back where he could control it, and, as it seemed his own bounty hunters weren’t up for the job...

The motel door clicked open, _finally_ , and the two men emerged nattering away about the benefits of ice cream versus whipped cream on pudding. How fascinating travelling with them must be. Sometimes, Crowley really wondered how much trauma that angel of theirs really had gone through...

“As important as I’m sure your discussion is, boys,” Crowley said loudly, cutting into their babble and smiling widely as their attention turned to him, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut it short. I thought you might want to know – I’ve found a little job you might like...”


	2. Chapter 2

Peter’s cell beeped for the twelfth time in the past thirty minutes. He reached over, grabbing it off the passenger seat and holding it up in front of his face. He opened his eyes just enough to read the caller ID, sighed, and threw it back down.

Eventually it stopped beeping and went to voicemail. Derek’s tinny voice echoed through the car. _Peter, answer your damn phone. Peter! For the love… get your ass out of wherever you’re hiding and get it to the house. Now. We need to talk._

Peter grinned. As if he was going to leave the perfect safety of where he was and voluntarily let his ass be kicked by his ‘alpha’. He knew Derek had searched the rest of the town – had heard his car pass by – but knew that, though his dear nephew probably associated every other atrocity to him, Derek _probably_ didn’t think he was a pedophile just yet.

So Peter was listening to music and flicking through random magazines in his car, parked in the parking lot of Beacon Hills High School.

It was quite handy, actually. Every now and then he’d pick up one of the pack or the Brimstone Child saying Derek’s name, and had been able to eavesdrop long enough to catch up with what he’d missed last night, and hear how pissed Derek was at him. He thought that the severity of the threats had increased between Scott telling Stiles by their lockers and Isaac gossiping with Erica in homeroom, but he couldn’t be _too_ hopeful.

A scent – familiar – suddenly flared up, flying past, causing his eyes to shoot open and for one hand to reach for the ignition, preparing to move, _quick_ – but he wasn’t near. The kid hadn’t even left the school. He listened, hard, and managed to catch Stiles’ voice in the lockers, calling for the coach. Too far away, and most likely too masked in the scent of sweat and teenage hormones, for Peter to have smelled him.

But brimstone had a _very_ distinct tang to it. If he wasn’t smelling _that_ Brimstone Child…

“Well, well,” he mused, cocking his head to the side as he caught what the coach was saying, “There’s _two_ of them? How interesting…”

He listened as the two swapped threats, threw each other into lockers, and as Scott got his ass utterly kicked by the new one. He took the opportunity to role his eyes, before returning to waiting, almost on tenterhooks, to see what they’d do.

He must admit, he wouldn’t have had put money on Stiles coming out on top. He didn’t know the kid had it in him.

As the two teenage boys (well, for given value of ‘teenage’ in the Brimstone Child’s case) slumped down together, and Stiles started to recount his life story, Peter realized he’d heard enough… and, perhaps, his saving grace.

“Hey, perhaps I won’t die today after all,” he mused. “I love it when that happens.”

He flicked on the ignition, and quietly, smoothly, and quite contentedly, drove out of the safety of the school campus.

*

“So…” Scott said, drawing out the syllable as he lowered himself against a lopsided, dented locker, head tilted and eye narrowed as he thought, “you _don’t_ have horns?”

Stiles groaned. _Seriously…_ “You realize it’s making me genuinely concerned over your mental health, that, out of _everything_ you’ve just heard, _horns_ is what you’ve fixated on?”

Scott shrugged. “It’d just be cool, y’know?”

Stiles paused, thought, then shrugged. “Yeah, actually, that would be kinda cool. Probably really inconvenient, but cool. But, _no,_ I don’t have horns. Or cloven hooves, before you ask about _that_ , too.”

“Cloven – what?” Scott asked, frowning, bless him, puzzled as usual.

“Never mind.”

“Hooves’d be weird – like you were some kind of Minotaur, or something-”

“No, _dumbass_ , Minotaurs have the _head_ of a bull, legs of a man – I’d be a fawn. Like Mr. Tumnus. And not that Mr. Tumnus wasn’t badass, but… yeah… no.”

There was a pause. Then, “Can you, like, speak in tongues or something?”

Unable to button down his disbelief any longer, Stiles flailed upright, turning to stare, opened mouthed at Scott, who was _still_ frowning thoughtfully into the distance. “How are you still alive? _How?_ _Seriously,_ dude, I tell you that I’m, I’m, some kind of thing ‘borne from the depths of hell, a servant of Satan’, and rather than freak out that I’m supposed to be _evil_ , you want to know if I have horns, hooves, or can speak in _tongues?!_ ”

But apparently, only one part of his rant had even so much as permeated Scott’s ears. He turned to Stiles, mouth open and eyes wide, shining with excitement. “Oh, dude, have you seen Satan? What’s he like? Does he have red skin?”

Stiles blinked. Twice. Before collapsing back against the locker, hands covering his face. “I give up on you,” he moaned, voice muffled by his hands, “I give up. Entirely. Go away. I want to live my life out in dumbass-free peace.”

Instead of leaving, Scott just laughed, hand reaching out to shove Stiles sideways. “You gave up on me _years_ ago,” he chuckled. “You know you still love me.”

“Possibly…” Stiles pretended to consider, one finger rising in contemplation, “ _before_ you started with the sudden Spanish Inquisition-esque interrogation.”

“Aw, c’mon! I’ve just found out that demons exist, and that my _best friend_ is one of them! I’m curious!”

 _Curious?_ When was Scott ever curious about anything that wasn’t tall, brunette, and wielding a bow? Still in complete and utter disbelief, Stiles swung his head around to stare at Scott. Scott stared innocently right back, eyes wide, mouth in a slight half-smile.

And it clicked.

Scott wasn’t curious at all. He was using the only subtle way he knew to make it clear – he didn’t care.

Scott didn’t care. Scott knew he was a demon, and _actually didn’t care._

Stiles smiled. Yeah, Scott was good.

Grin growing ever so slightly, Scott waved at Stiles as he continued, “So, really – have you seen the devil?”

Stiles groaned dramatically, head falling down against his chest – and trying to smother his smile. This was normal. If Scott was giving him normal, he’d take it. “No, I cannot speak in tongues, and no, I haven’t seen the devil. Last I heard, he was locked up, _far_ out of harm’s way, and, fingers crossed, he’s still there. The demons I’ve met are bad enough – imagine if Lucifer himself was walking about…”

“I’d rather not, thanks.”

“…Ah, yeah, no, okay, perhaps not.”

There was another groan, ringing with pain, headaches, and complete confusion.

Stiles looked up, momentarily bewildered, before realizing. “Speaking of Satan,” he muttered, turning to the left to see where Coach Finstock, human, was still in place, slumped between his own set of lockers. _Equality at its best – whether werewolf, demon, human; everyone gets a broken locker!_

Yeah. He needed more Adderall.

“D’you think he’s waking up?”

Unfortunately, Scott’s affinity for stupid questions wasn’t just limited to the supernatural. “No, I think that outburst of confusion and agony was because he’s falling deeper unconscious – _yes_ , Scott, I think he’s waking up!” Stiles pushed himself upright, wincing as his stomach twisted. He’d forgotten about that. Forgetting about being shot by hunters… wow, this was his life now. “We need to get him into his office, into his chair, hopefully he’ll think he dreamt it all, or something—”

The Coach let out another groan.

“He’s waking up!”

“Then knock him back out!”

“Dude, no, I can’t knock out the Coach!”

“I had to earlier, why can’t you?”

“Because you were knocking out a demon evil thing, not Finstock!”

Another aptly timed groan from the Coach came, Stiles raised his eyebrows and wafted Scott towards him. Wincing, and apologizing profusely, Scott slammed his fist into the side of Finstock’s face. “Oh god oh god I’m so sorry—”

 “Relax, dude, he can’t hear you,” Stiles said, breathing out a sigh of relief. “Now, carry him into his office and dump him into his chair. Oh, and put his head on his arms, on the desk, if you can. Yeah, that’d be a good touch.”

“Hey, why’ve I got to carry him?”

“Because, Scott,” Stiles sighed, as if it was a fact he’d tried to teach him many, many times (which it kinda was), “You’re the supernatural brawn of this operation – I’m merely the weak, human brain—” Stiles paused, mouth open, it hitting him at the exact same time a truly wicked grin spread across Scott’s face. “Awh, _damn_. That’s not going to work anymore, is it?”

Only years of practice managed to stop him wrapping his fingers around Scott’s throat, even if only in a mock way, when he started to laugh. “Nope! You take the legs, I’ll take the arms.”

But just because he knew he was beaten, didn’t mean he did as instructed without a torrent of groaning. For a short guy, Finstock was _heavy_. “What the hell does he _eat_?”

“He’s not _that_ heavy,” Scott said, lifting the Coach up by his arms with an ease that made Stiles really start to resent his friend’s wolflihood.

“Yeah, well, we can’t all be superwolf,” Stiles muttered, having shift his grip on the Coach’s ankles so as not to drop him. “This body’s human, I’ll have you know! 147lb of weak human! You’re making me _suffer!”_

“You just sent him flying into the lockers, knocking them over like skittles, with your _mind_ ,”Scott said incredulously.

“Not the same thing!”

Scott grinned, but didn’t answer. Slowly, they began to shuffle towards the office, Coach swinging precariously between them.

“How many people know, then?” Scott asked eventually, voice quiet and low, serious.

“Hm? About my… not-quite-so-innocent-human-ness?” Stiles checked, wincing as Coach’s back slipped slightly too close to the edge of a locker for his liking. “Uh, that’d be none. Well, one. You. I kinda… didn’t know how anyone would react.”

“Not even your dad?”

Stiles could have laughed at that. “Seriously? How d’you think he’d react to that? Finding out that I’m some black smoke hellspawn thing, that took over his son before he was even a year old? Yeah, sure, I’d bet he’d be sohappy to hear that.” He’d considered it, trying to explain to his parents, the one day it’d struck him how significant it was, that he wasn’t human. Then he’d realized how significant it was, that he wasn’t who they believed him to be. Cuckoo in a starling’s nest. Now, there was just Dad – and Stiles couldn’t take away from him the one family member he thought he had left. Stiles would happily pretend to be normal, using the excuse it was making his dad happier to have him than have nothing, in order to keep this life he’d managed to create for himself.

“He might be okay with it,” Scott tried to suggest, but Stiles could hear the doubt in his voice. “I mean, he wouldn’t _have_ a son without you, right? And you’re you, we all know you, you’re not evil – that’s why I’m not, y’know, trying to kill you right now.”

That made him smile slightly. “Thanks, for the not killing me thing, by the way,” he said, like the afterthought it really wasn’t. “Much appreciated!”

“Any time,” Scott replied, sounding just as casual as Stiles – though that could be down to how he was more focused on kicking the door to the office open than actually answering. “God knows I’d be dead by now if not for you. Killing you would be a really stupid way to repay you for that.”

“Remember that logic, next time you can’t shut me up, okay? That’s some good logic right there.”

It was a bit of a struggle getting Finstock into his chair – Stiles unashamedly shoved his foot into the Coach’s stomach to push him further up at one point. He considered he was owed some revenge for three year’s worth of late night lacrosse practice misery.

“We are never speaking of this event again,” Stiles half gasped, half swore, as Coach fell forwards onto him, face landing on Stiles’ shoulder. “Get him off me _NOW_ – and I mean, _never_. Not even when drunk. God this is horrible, disgusting, get him _off meeeee-_ ”

“That’s fine,” Scott said, wrapping his arms around the Coach’s waist to lift him off Stiles and, finally, into place on his chair. Stiles fell back against the door in relief, before pretending to retch, and dusting off the contaminated shoulder. “I can’t get drunk anyway, remember?” Scott was frowning again. This wasn’t good. It meant there were more questions coming. “Hey,” Scott said curiously, and it sounded like _actual_ curiosity this time, turning back to face Stiles and _there_ you go, there it was, “how come you can say God? Isn’t it, like, repellent to you?”

Stiles groaned, rolled his eyes, flung the door open and tried to make a dramatic exit.

It didn’t work.

“No, hey, dude, it’s a genuine question!” Scott yelled after him, jogging to catch up.

“I swear, of you ask me _this_ many more ‘genuine questions’,” Stiles told him through gritted teeth, hands going from displaying an inch in front of Scott’s eyes to quotations marks over ‘genuine questions’, “I’m going to bury your body where they’ll _never. Find. You_.”

But then Scott was pulling out the puppy-dog eye. Fuck.

Stiles answered wearily, “Apparently, it’s just his name in Latin that we can’t stand. And as I doubt anyone, except perhaps the Latin teacher and Lydia, even knows what that _is_ – I figure I’m safe enough.” He grabbed his bag from the floor, swinging it up onto his shoulder. “Homeroom?” he suggested, sticking a thumb towards the door, but Scott was still frowning. Sighing, Stiles just left, figuring Scott would follow.

He did.

Stiles had trained him well.

“What about the cross things, crucifixes?”

“ _Pretty_ sure you’re thinking of vampires, Scott.”

“And isn’t there something about only being able to come out at night, or is that just in your smoky shape—”

“No, that’s vampires too, Scott.”

“Oh, and would it help if I asked Mom not to buy garlic anymore?”

Stiles skidded to a stop, turning to stare at Scott. He was grinning.

Five minutes later, so was Stiles.

*

“Stilinski, there you are! Bit late, but at least you’ve bothered to show… Do you, by any chance, know where McCall’s gone to?”

“Oh, Scott’s not feeling too well,” Stiles said, shaking his head sadly, sliding into his chair. “He’s gone to see the nurse… diarrhea… horrible, horrible… gone everywhere… avoid the boy’s toilets for a few hours…”

He could feel the eyes of Allison, Isaac and Erica boring into him, but he didn’t turn to meet their eyes. He just waited until the teacher was no longer looking at him, then grinned once more.

*

“He exists.”

Dean looked up, over-laden fork halfway to his mouth. “Whu’?”

Across the room, and hidden behind a table, two piles of books, a bag of fast food and, of course, his laptop, Sam cleared his throat, angled himself towards his brother and read from the screen. “Stilinski, Genim, with the preferred name of ‘Stiles’. Seventeen. Attends Beacon Hills High School, a straight-A student, despite being diagnosed with ADHD at the age of seven—”

“That’s the, the attention thing, right, where they can’t focus?”

“Yeah.”

“Kay, go on.” Dean wafted at him, the universal motion to continue, and finally put the forkful of pie in his mouth.

“Passed his driving test just over a year ago, barely. Is a member of the school’s lacrosse team – and no, I don’t know what that is either – but apparently wasn’t very _good_ at it, until a sudden display of skills in the final, end of last season. Has a criminal record, but nothing serious, mainly trespassing, slight thievery – oh, wait, last year a guy called Jackson Whittemore applied for a restraining order on Stilinski and his best friend after they kidnapped him for a day, but it has recently been revoked. And Stilinski lives, as Crowley said, in Beacon Hills, California, with his dad … who is the _sheriff_.”

Dean tried to exclaim, but realized it was a complete waste when all that came out of his mouth was pie. Instead, he stopped, chewed, swallowed, waving his fork around the whole time to make sure Sam didn’t try and say anything in the mean time. “That’s it, then,” he said eventually, when his mouth was clear of food, “That’s the trap, right there.”

“Trap?”

“Crowley wouldn’t even _think_ of us, unless it somehow made our lives misery,” Dean pointed out.

Sam started to nod, eyes drifting back down to the laptop screen. “He tells us there’s a demon in the son of the sheriff, we go and try to get rid of it…”

“Son gets ganked in the struggle, Daddy’s not happy, the Winchesters are back on the authorities’ Most Wanted list, and I have to abandon my baby in an unused warehouse again,” Dean concluded, stabbing his fork back into the pie. “Told you. S’a trap.”

Figuring that had been decided, Dean re-attacked his food, upending fork-fulls into his mouth. He should have figured that Sammy wouldn’t stop there, though. The kid was still frowning at his computer, clicking away.

Though Dean hadn’t expected Sam to suddenly jerk upright, eyes wide and mouth falling open. “What?” Dean asked, remembering to swallow first this time.

“Uh, perhaps it’s not so much a trap after all… if it is, it’s a very well-placed one. Last year, there were a string of ‘wild animal’ attacks in Beacon Hills and the surrounding forests, which killed _seven_ people, and at one stage trapped a group of teenagers in the school. One of the kids was—?”

“Stilinski?”

“Yup. The police struggled to identify the animal, but it was believed to be a cougar, and the killings mostly stopped after a local killed a cougar in the parking lot of the high school.”

Dean grinned, brain picking out words. “When you say _cougar…”_

He didn’t even need to look at Sam to see the eye-rolling. “I mean the _mountain lion_ , Dean. There was one final death _after_ the cougar was shot, which could have been attributed to the same animal, but when there were no other deaths after that, they decided whatever it was must have moved on.” Sam finished, and turned to look at Dean with a look that was _way_ too expectant.

Dammit.

“But that sounds more like a black dog, or a wendigo or something, more than a demon,” Dean argued.

“A wendigo in California?” Sam asked, skepticism dripping from each letter.

“We didn’t expect to find one in Blackwater Ridge, but we did,” Dean pointed out. “And whatever it is, sounds like it’s long gone. Some other hunters have probably dealt with it.”

Sam shrugged, and Dean felt like he’d finally won.

Until something on the laptop caught Sam’s eye again.

One day, Dean was going to burn that damn thing. Melt it, then drive over it and away into the sunset.

“And I think I know who,” Sam was saying, his voice doing that excitable thing it did when he got a lead. “Remember Chris Argent?”

It took a while, but eventually the name clicked. “Yeah! Wolf guy, from… ah, when was it, ’98? About two years before you took off to uni, right?”

“That’s the one. Well – he’s the ‘local’ who shot the cougar,” Sam explained, and things started to slot into place. “He and his family had moved to Beacon Hills in time for the beginning of that school year.” Dean watched as Sam frowned. “His sister was the last victim… and his wife committed suicide, about five months ago. His father also died, from some kind of poisoning. It’s just him and his daughter, now.”

Dean winced. “Tough times.”

“Yeah…”

He finished his pie, denial struggling to stay in place.

“The whole area’s got some tough history – another local family, the Hales, their house burnt down over ten years ago, with most of the family inside… only a girl of about 21, a teenage boy, and man in his late twenties survived, the last barely with his life, the other two moved to New York. Looks like it was around the time they returned that the deaths started, with the girl as the _first_ victim. The boy – a Derek Hale – was first accused of the murders when they found half her body in his back garden. The older survivor went missing from the local hospital in the _middle_ of all the murders.”

Unable to stop himself, Dean snorted. “Well, none of that’s suspicious. That’s one messed up town, dude. You think that Hale family’s the family of wolves?”

“It sounds like it, doesn’t it?” Sam agreed, finally, _finally_ , turning away from the laptop, and opening the bag of fast food, which had probably long gone cold. “I dunno, man… I think we should go check it out.”

“No. _No._ We’re _not-”_

“Dean, you _can’t_ say you’re not curious!” Sam argued right back without a pause, waving a salad wrap back and forth. “Why the fire, what happened to Argent’s wife, his _dad_ , why there’s a Hale that’s still alive, where the oldest survivor went-”

Why did Sam always have to be so damn _right_. “Yeah, but, _Crowley-”_

“We don’t have to take his word that there’s a demon in the kid, we can do our _own_ research on that,” Sam pointed out logically. He was looking at Dean with that damn superior expression with that damn unwavering certainty and his damn healthy meal…

“Awww, _fine_ ,” Dean muttered, throwing his fork into the now empty pie box. “We’ll check out the damn town.”

Sam was determinedly not grinning, he could see it. It was doing nothing to make him feel better. “Kay. You want to leave today? We’d probably get there by nightfall, it’s not far.”

“Might as well get it over with,” Dean grumbled.

“Call Cas? Get him to beam us over there?”

“ _Noooo_ way. For one thing, my _baby_ ,” Dean stated, pointing out of the motel window to where the Impala was waiting for them. “For another, as much as I love my pie, I’d prefer it wasn’t stuck in my body for the next _week_. No angel mojo, we are not flying angel airways. Ever, if I can help it.” He pushed himself to his feet, grabbing the empty pie box and crushing it in his hands. “Besides,” he continued, throwing the crumbled cardboard into the bin, “he’s busy, up there, remember? Not gonna call on him unless it’s necessary. If he’s got some free time, he’ll come to us.”

Sam sighed, and there was a click as he closed his laptop. “You just want to play loud music and make me suffer.”

Dean grinned. “Now, would I do that?”

“Yes.”

*

First lesson, and Stiles had seven missed messages on his phone. He’d never felt so popular.

 Three were from Allison, unsurprisingly.

_Is he okay? He’s not answering his phone!_

_The nurse said she never saw him. Stiles, where is he?!?_

_STILES WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH HIM I SWEAR TO GOD_

Two from Erica.

_He’s not ill, is he?_

_If you’ve killed him, I’ll never forgive you for doing so without my help_

One from Jackson.

_Word is Scott’s missing and you know something. If it’s BECAUSE of you, the world thanks you_

And one from his dad.

_Get some milk on way home we’ve run out_

Okay, so that one wasn’t as interesting. After seeing the name, he’d half worried that Allison had reported him…

He replied to Allison that Scott was fine, he was spending time on the naughty step, because he couldn’t stop himself. Erica he promised that if he ever did get the excuse to take Scott out, he’d definitely include her. And if that was only because she terrified him, she was never to know. Jackson, he ignored. Jackson forever would be unworthy of the perfect, handcrafted wit of Stiles Stilinski. He sent his dad a simple message received.

By the time he’d replied to all of that, whilst managing to hide his phone beneath his desk (history teacher was half blind anyway), he’d got another text, this one from Isaac.

_Just found Scott trying to claw his way out of a changing room locker. Locked him in the adjoining one, that wasn’t so battered. Hope that’s acceptable?_

Stiles started laughing so hard that the teacher had to send him out of the room. If Scott had to be found a bit earlier that Stiles had intended, at least it was someone who enjoyed pranking Scott as much as he did.

God, he loved the pack.

*

Derek had hated the idea of rebuilding the house, of restoring it to how it _had_ been. His old life had burnt down with it, and for a while he’d liked the idea of it staying that way. Then Stiles had turned his offer to help with the restoration into a threat, causing Derek to find out that he hated the _act_ of rebuilding as well. Mainly the plastering. The patience, the concentration needed to spread it evenly, and the amount of times it’d just fall off onto his boots or top – he’d always preferred something he could do quickly, well, and perhaps with force.

And now he was having to spend an afternoon re-plastering the whole front of the house, thanks to the Argent’s impromptu drive-by the previous night. He half wanted to not bother filling the holes in, leave them there, claim they made it easier to hear people coming, or something similar.

But that would mean having the bullet holes there as a constant reminder of how close he’d come to losing Boyd, and Stiles.

_My sanity wouldn’t last long if I had to look at that every day._

Behind him, he heard someone whistle. “Wow… the Argents really went to town, huh?”

At Peter’s voice, Derek’s nails started to slip into claws. “No thanks to you,” he said, voice coming out as cold. He didn’t see a problem with that.

“Ahh… this going to be yet another thing added to the list of things we’re blaming Uncle Peter for?” Peter asked, and Derek could hear him relaxing, leaning against a doorframe. “Because, although I’m quite happily guilty about many things, I’m finding it hard to see how _this_ is down to me…”

“You killed Kate,” Derek said, trying to move slowly as he set down the palate he was using to spread the plaster, rather than furiously throwing it onto the floor, like he wanted to.

“You _wanted_ to kill her.”

“But I didn’t. You did.” Convincing himself that he was in control, he finally raised his head to look at Peter. Control or not, the sight of him in his house, smiling smugly, still made Derek want to bash his head against the wall. He forced himself to breathe out slowly. _It wouldn’t do anything but give me blood to wash off the wall._

“Ah,” Peter said, raising a finger as if he’d only just realized. “So, you think that the Argents are still trying to kill our poor little pack because I killed Kate, and, what, because I’m actually trying to enjoy my life, rather than sit around and mope all day, in a piss-poor attempt to mollify the Argents? Is that how you’re making this my fault?”

“ _Making?”_ Derek echoed, muscles straining as he forced himself not to move. “I’m not _making –_ Boyd was shot, _Stiles_ almost died last night—”

“Oh, that reminds me,” Peter said, not even bothering to raise his voice, but managing to interrupt Derek all the same, “why I came here.”

So he wasn’t here because Derek had ordered him. _No. Of course not_.

Peter gave him a lopsided grin, patronizing, as if knew how much that sudden realization cut him. “No, Derek, it wasn’t because of your frustrated, carefully worded voicemails. No. It’s about the Brimstone Child. There’s another one.”

He knew he knew that term from somewhere, but he was too tired, too pissed off to bother thinking too hard about it. “The what?”

“The Brimstone Child?” Peter repeated, and Derek just shrugged. As Peter started to frown at him, mouth falling open in confusion, he realized that perhaps there was something more important being said here than he’d first thought, but… he couldn’t place it. It must have been years since he heard the phrase in context, probably not since before the fire, and thinking of any memory before then hurt.

The longer he stayed silent, the more glee started to show on Peter’s expression. “You don’t know, do you?” Peter said quietly, sounding excited, amused. “You worry this much about him, and you can’t even remember—”

There was a footstep, someone standing on a twig, or a pile of leaves, a few meters into the forest out the front of the Hale house.

“Shouldn’t all your little pups be in school?” Peter sighed.

“It’s not the pack,” Derek said, turning to the front of the house.

For once, Peter remained silent, waiting with him as the stairs leading up to the porch creaked, as the front door – still without a lock – swung open almost noiselessly. It was easy to tell who it was, then, the breeze drifting the man’s scent towards the both of them. Derek stiffened. Behind him, Peter laughed again.

Chris Argent stepped into the room, eyes scanning the room warily, before landing on Peter, and finally Derek. “Derek,” he said, voice calm, but the stiffness to his body betrayed his lack of trust.

“Chris! Boy, it is good to see you again,” Peter called across, waving jovially, grin still in place. Derek wanted to bury his face in his hands until Peter just _vanished_ , but he didn’t dare take his eyes off Argent. Just because there were no weapons evident, didn’t mean there weren’t any. “How’s the business? Going well, I hope. Terrible to see businesses going out of, well, business, with the economy in the state it—”

“What do you want, Argent?” Derek asked, cutting across Peter. He wanted him gone – Peter as well, but he needed to find out what he’d been talking about, what the _Brimstone Child_ was, because it was annoying him now that he couldn’t remember, couldn’t place it, and he didn’t dare ask Peter in front of Argent. “I somehow doubt you’re here just to admire your handiwork.”

“It’s quite poor handiwork, actually,” Peter added, “Look at the groupings of the shots – terrible, truly dreadful—”

As Argent’s fists flexed at Peter’s words, the motion barely noticeable, Derek had to stop himself from smirking. “I’m here in truce,” Argent tried to say.

“Oh, yes, truce,” Derek couldn’t stop himself saying, looking around the hunter to his half-plastered new wall. “That’s going well, isn’t it?”

Argent’s hands fully curled into fists this time. He was having to force his breathing to be slow. Derek turned slightly, looking over his shoulder at Peter. Peter winked at him. Derek turned back to Argent. “Last night was a reminder. If we’d wanted to kill any one of you, we would have,” he was saying, hands slowly relaxing again.

Peter laughed. “Sure you could have! Optimism’s such a good character trait, don’t you think?”

Derek ignored him, waiting for Argent to say what he needed to, so he could leave. 

“Today, I’ve come to warn you,” Argent said, and he was looking at Derek with an intensity, a certainty that Derek couldn’t help but take him seriously. When Peter started to laugh again, mocking Argent’s intentions, Derek shook his head.

“He’s not warning us about himself,” he said, voice low as he waited for Argent to confirm or deny what he was saying. “He’s warning us about someone else.” He wanted Argent to deny it. He wanted to know that the only thing he had to fear was the devil he knew… _How bad must they be, if an Argent is taking the time to warn us…_

But Argent nodded.

It took a second’s focus, a moment of compartmentalizing, for Derek to go from unrestrained panicking to thinking, _this is the situation, now how do we deal with it_. _It’s always better to learn the worst_ , he’d been told, _and be prepared._ “Okay,” he said, “Who, and why?”

“Their names are Dean and Sam Winchester,” Argent said. He was speaking slowly, giving Derek time to take note of what he was saying. “They’re brothers, hunters, but not like me, they don’t just hunt werewolves, they hunt all kinds of things – things I wouldn’t believe existed if I hadn’t got caught up in one of their hunts over a decade ago. There’s wendigos, ghouls, skin walkers, vengeful spirits, and demons.”

He paused, as if waiting for Derek or Peter to call him out on his bullshit. Derek couldn’t speak for Peter, but he was still trying to figure it out. Two hunters. They’d handled worse, surely.

“They must have caught wind of all the killing going on around town,” Argent continued, head tilting minutely towards Peter.

“You’re welcome!”

“It’s not a good thing,” Argent snapped. “They’re dangerous. They’ve taken down some big game, if the stories are true. Bigger game than your pack, by far. Some even say the brothers have got divine power on their side. You want to try and laugh this off, fine. Luckily for you, they haven’t come here to hunt a rag-tag pack of teenage werewolves.”

“Then why the hell are you telling us about them?”

For one strange moment, Derek felt he should save the moment for posterity. He and Peter were actually agreeing on something.

The pause went on for too long. By the time Argent opened his mouth to speak again, uncertainty covering his features, Derek’s heart was thudding against his chest. “They said they’re coming for the Sheriff’s son.”

 _Stiles_.

He searched Argent’s heartbeat, his skin for sweat, anything that might belay a lie. There was nothing.

“You say they _said,_ what do you mean said, how do you know all this?” Derek asked, and he was trying to stay calm, trying to keep the facts compartmentalized from his emotions but he just _couldn’t_ , and the words became tangled as they tripped from his tongue.

“Sam sent me an email – we’ve stayed in touch, swapped facts, things we’ve learned – and he said he was coming into to town on a lead, and suggested meeting up.” Argent held up his hands, fingers spread, half an apology, half an attempt to convey innocence. “‘Lead about the sheriff’s son’. That’s all I know, I _swear_.”

“That could mean anything,” Derek argued, trying to think of another interpretation, because they couldn’t – why _would_ they – be after Stiles. Stiles was the normal one, the safe one, the human he had to protect –

“No, they’re after the Brimstone Child all right,” Peter said. “I’m surprised the kid’s gone this long without trouble, to be honest with you.”

And there it was again, that word, that he’d ignored when he should have listened, tried to remember. Now, it was sending a shot of fear through him, a Pavlovian response he’d long ignored…

And that just made him even more scared. Because the ‘Brimstone Child’ meant Stiles. They were talking about Stiles. He’d been taught to fear _Stiles._

“Get out of my house,” he growled to Argent, sparing him his attention for the two seconds it took the hunter to see his face, be scared, and turn around.

Then it was Peter.

“Brimstone Child,” he echoed, eyes hurting with the heat as they glowed, nails pulling as they grew out into claws but he couldn’t stop himself. Peter had raised his eyebrows, arms crossed and waiting, and it took another growl before the beta was stepping back, composure slipping. “What do you mean, _Brimstone Child?_ What is – what is it?”

“You’d know, if you bothered to remember,” Peter said carelessly, and Derek didn’t have _time for his shit_. He didn’t even realize he’d stepped forwards, until he saw Peter step back again. “Don’t you remember what your mother would tell you, Derek?” Peter asked, smiling, eyes wide, _excited_. “‘Stay away from the Brimstone Baby, Derek. He’s not like us. He was made—”

 _He was made in hell_.

And yeah, Derek remembered. The boy in the grocery store that made his nose hurt, that made his mom hold him to her side. How scared he became of a child six years younger than him, as his mother made him promise to stay away, as his sister gave him nightmares of how his eyes were filled with darkness and how he could kill you by blinking, how he ate souls and drank blood.

How a year ago he’d followed the darkly familiar scent of fire and sulfur in the woods, an abandoned inhaler held in one hand, to find two teenage boys, one beta.

How much of a _lie_ he’d been believing.

Peter must have seen it, the instant he realized. If his heart wasn’t stuttering in his chest, there was always the way the blood had fallen from his face, the way he could no longer breathe clearly. “Oh, yes,” Peter said, and there wasn’t an ounce of pity in his voice, not one, “That sweet, fragile human you so _love_ to protect? Turns out, he’s the one you ought to be running from.” And he chuckled, whilst Derek felt like he was dying where he stood. “Now there’s a one for the books.”

*

The tray slammed down on the table next to Stiles with enough force to make his water spill across his plate. “Ah, you got out then?” he asked cheerily, toasting Scott with a chicken strip he then tried to shake dry.

Scott glared at him as he slid into his seat, for once, across the table from Stiles rather than next to him. Stiles couldn’t seem to be too upset about that. Grinning was too much fun.

“Allison found me,” Scott mumbled, somehow managing to grab his cutlery furiously. “No thanks to _you_. I thought you’re supposed to be proving you’re not evil!”

“No, I’ve spent the last seventeen years proving I’m not evil,” Stiles pointed out, ripping into his chicken and shoving it into the corner of his cheek as he kept talking, “Now, I’m just enjoying abusing my position as best friend.”

“I hate you.”

“You _love_ me, and you know it. Know it enough to let me have your pudding…?”

Scott’s head jerked up, mouth open with sheer horror, and hands clamping down hard on top of the pot of chocolate mousse. “No, get your own friggin’ pudding!”

Stiles pouted.

“And no… Jedi mind-tricks, or anything on me, okay dude? Bro code! Swear!”

“Scott,” Stiles sighed wearily, shoving the rest of the chicken into his mouth and swallowing, “If I could do mind tricks, you’d never have eaten pudding in your little existence. Bro code or no. Chocolate mousse will _always_ mean more to me than you.”

“…Yeah, fair enough.”

“I’m glad we understand each other.” Having finished his chicken, Stiles grabbed a spoon and his own pot of mousse. “Has Coach woken up yet, d’you know?”

“Yeah, he was coming to as we were trying to leave.” Scott stabbed at a piece of chicken, pulling it apart with the fork and the tip of his knife. Stiles was starting to wonder if their werewolfliness was affecting his eating habits, or if he’d just forgotten how to use a knife and fork.

“Yeah? How’d you explain all the broken lockers ‘n’ stuffs?”

Utterly unexpectedly, Scott looked up and grinned. “I didn’t have to,” he said, sounding like he was on the edge of laughing. “He just looked around, saw the damage, and yelled ‘Greenberg!’”

Stiles snorted half his pudding back out into his hand. _Ah, Greenberg. We should probably start sending him fruit baskets. With pineapple. And starfruits. We owe him so many detentions…_ Still chuckling, he proceeded to lick the pudding off his hand.

“Aw, no, Stiles, c’mon that’s _gross!”_

Wide-eyed, Stiles looked across to Scott, meeting the disgust on his face with complete innocence on his own half. “What? It’s only been in my mouth!”

Stiles had a feeling that the arguing would have continued, either ending with such a pitiful comment from Scott that he’d feel forced into actually cleaning his hand, or such a pathetic comment that Stiles would lick his hand clean just to spite him, but a distraction came in the shape of, as _always_ in Scott’s case, Allison.

This time, the distraction was slightly too good. It made Stiles forget his pudding.

Allison was watching him carefully, not even taking her eyes off him as she pulled out the chair next to Scott, slipping into it carefully. When Stiles narrowed his eyes back at her, she let out a small shocked breath, and suddenly started looking everywhere _but_ at Stiles.

She _knew!_

Mouth falling open with horror, indignation, betrayal, hurt (for a broken bro code), and perhaps just a _touch_ of dramatic effect, Stiles gesticulated wildly from Allison, to Scott, to himself, back to Allison and finally to Scott, before flapping wildly and hissing, “You _told her?!”_

He watched, dramatic outrage barely contained as Scott’s mouth fell open, and _not a single word came out._ Stiles flailed again, and Scott flailed back, pointing at Allison desperately. “I – it – I had to explain why you’d locked my in a locker for three hours!” he protested weakly, trying desperately to pull his puppy dog eyes on Stiles.

But Stiles had survived _twelve years of this_. He was fucking _immune_. He glanced over at Allison, who was looking remarkably awkward, before swinging his head back to Scott, slamming his hands on the table, leaning forwards and continuing to hiss, “You couldn’t possibly have _lied?_ It’s not hard, Scott! Or, oh, I don’t know, just said _I’m an annoying fucker what else was Stiles supposed to do!?!”_

“I – that just didn’t occur to me, okay?!” Scott hissed back, apparently having decided attack was the best form of defense. “Besides, who’s she going to tell?”

“I don’t _know!”_ Stiles was trying really, _really_ hard not to yell. Or reach over and slam Scott’s head into his mashed potatoes. That’d be fun. “That’s the _problem!”_

“I’m not going to tell _anyone!”_ Allison was leaning forwards, voice low and, unlike either Stiles’ or Scott’s, actually managing to stay at whisper level. “Now can you two please stop looking like you’re going to murder each other in the middle of the cafeteria!”

Simmering down – barely – Stiles slid off the table and back onto his seat, pulling his tray back towards him from where it had gone flying to the side. Neither he nor Scott broke eye contact, not as Stiles spooned more pudding into his mouth (the stuff on his hands had been rubbed off by the table), and Scott bit into chicken threateningly.

He could see Scott’s lips twitching behind the decimated chicken. Only years of practice stopped him from smirking with victory.

“Look, Stiles,” Allison said softly, still trying to play mediator. Sometimes, Stiles forgot she didn’t know him well enough to know when he was pretending from when the two of them were _actually_ fighting. “You’re what you are, and that’s fine. I mean, my family was convinced werewolves were evil for centuries, and I’ve got proof that’s not true.” She looked at Scott in way that made Stiles want to _throw up_. “So who’s to say that… what you are, has to be evil, too?”

Why did she have to be so damn _sensible?_ Spoilsport. “Don’t be so trusting, most demons are complete douches,” Stiles sighed, finally rolling his head and eyes from Scott to Allison. “And I’m not talking Jackson or Harris level douches, I’m talking Hannibal Lecter doucheness. I just… escaped before I became one of them.”

And as he watched, all the sympathy dropped from Allison’s face like a fucking lead balloon, mouth falling open with an audible snap and eyes shooting wide. “Oh my god you _are_ a demon?!”

As tempting as it was to fall face-first into his lunch, he managed to stop himself, purely from previous first-hand experience about how the potatoes would go _everywhere_. Snorting mashed potatoes was not fun. “Yes, Allison, I am a demon,” he groaned, going for the less dramatic, but also less painful option of rolling his eyes.

“I mean – I thought Scott had heard wrong, or was exaggerating, or something, but,” Allison was stumbling over her words, eyes dancing across the air in front of her as if seeing all the possibilities, everything she’d missed before, “You’re a _demon?_ An actual, living, breathing _demon?_ That’s – I can’t believe it, it’s-”

“Going to get really dull real quick if you don’t stop _yelling it to the whole cafeteria!”_ Stiles said, going back to hissing. It was a good way of speaking, he found, the right balance between expressing annoyance and your views on their stupidity. “Don’t know about you guys, but I’m not a huge fan of locals standing outside my house, wielding pitchforks!”

Allison looked apologetic, and started to chew her lips nervously, eyes flicking to the tables nearest to them.

Scott looked confused. “What? But you’re always calling me a werewolf in school! Yelling it! In the corridors!”

“Yes, but you’re safe, because no one would ever believe you could be something so cool and supernatural,” Stiles explained carefully. “Me, on the other hand – _easily_ believable that I’m something so powerful and awesome-”

“How – uh, how powerful are you?” Something in Allison’s tone made it hard for Stiles to want to rant at her for interrupting his speech about how awesome he was; something caught between wariness and fear.

It didn’t hurt him, the realization that she was scared of him. He’d expected it. Scott was an idiot – a trusting, brilliant human being of an idiot, but an idiot lacking self-preservation instincts all the same. Allison? She had brains, common sense and a bow and arrow. She wasn’t going to be able to brush off learning Stiles was a demon, she didn’t have the decade plus of friendship – all she had was what Scott told her.

Meeting her eye, Stiles shrugged. “Not very,” he told her, the words more of a promise than anything. “I mean, I’m not super strong like wolf boy here. Nor super fast. Nor do I have super sensitive senses. I can really only... _feel_ things, like, like if there’s a person nearby, and stuff. I managed to move things with telekinesis a few times, but anything bigger than a textbook hurts. And I’m pretty good at hiding in shadows, but... that’s about it, really.” He smiled, in a way he really hoped was coming off as self-deprecating, and not dark and terrifying.

He assumed, from the way she was almost smiling back, that it had worked. “And you don’t – y’know, want to-”

“Disembowel you, give your flesh to Lucifer, and wear your intestines like some kind of gory feather boa? Nah,” Stiles said, shaking his head. “Trust me, in this town, you’re far more likely to be dichotomized by a werewolf than a dem – werewolves! What amazing, terrifying, impressive creatures, they, they just _stun_ me-”

“Yeah, nice smooth change of topic right there, Stilinski,” Isaac drawled, tray sliding onto the table beside Stiles, and the werewolf himself slipping into the chair far more elegantly than Stiles could ever dream of. Erica, on Isaac’s far side, was moving more _sensually_ than elegantly. Stiles could hear the boners popping into existence all around the cafeteria, with his human ears. No wonder Erica was grinning all the time.

“Yeah, some of my best work, I think,” Stiles pretended to muse, still letting out an internal sigh of relief that Isaac hadn’t heard anything else.

“But on the topic of werewolves, anyone got any idea as to why Big Bad has summoned us?” Isaac asked, looking from Stiles across to Scott and even Allison, picking apart his strip of chicken delicately.

“Big bad?” Scott asked, at the same time as Stiles echoed, “‘Summoned’?”

“Check your phones, morons,” Erica sighed.

Scott was quickest, flicking his phone from his pocket in a way that belied he ever actually _used_ it. “ _after school, hale house. No later than five_ ,” he read from his screen. Isaac and Erica were nodding, presumably having received the same text.

Frowning, Stiles pulled out his own phone. His didn’t say that, at all.

_We need to talk. Hale house, ASAP. I need to decide what to do about you._

How did he – he couldn’t know. No, not possible. He couldn’t – But Stiles couldn’t understand what Derek was saying, otherwise. Perhaps he meant because Stiles was the only remaining human member of the pack?

Someone kicked him under the table, and Stiles jerked up, to find Scott staring at him, eyes wide. He gestured to the phone in Stiles’ hand, then mouthed, “What?” Fingers dancing over the screen, Stiles forwarded Derek’s text to Scott, followed by his own, just a question mark. Seeing Scott’s eyes widen at the message, he felt his stomach drop that little bit more. Not that Scott was a good judge of how dangerous a situation was, but...

“What d’you think, Stilinski?”

Stiles felt himself be pulled back into reality, looking around to see who had spoken. Everyone, except for Scott, was watching him curiously. “What?”

“You always seem to know what Derek’s thinking, what’s he up to?” Erica asked, leaning on the table to see around Isaac.

Stiles smiled ironically. “Trust me, I really don’t,” he said, the text still ringing through his head. “How can _anyone_ know what goes through that werew – humans are such fascinating creatures, don’t you think?”

This time, it was Jackson, Lydia, and Danny (the reason for the change of topic) who were sliding into place on the table. Jackson raised a carefully plucked eyebrow, and muttered, “You’re such a dork, Stiles.” Looking around the table, it seemed to be a sentiment echoed by most of them, especially going from the huge eye-roll from Isaac.

But when Stiles looked across at Scott, he saw a fear that matched his own.

*

It hadn’t been until after lacrosse practice that everyone had been free. The entire time he’d been made to sit and watch Scott, Isaac and Jackson throw everybody else about on the field (Coach hadn’t let Stiles skip out on practice entirely), Stiles had sat there, trying to think of all possible ways to get out of meeting Derek that night. Some small voice had been saying since the text that he’d just have to accept it – that Derek _knew_ now, he’d lost Derek to what he was – but he’d always been good at ignoring the small, sensible voices.

He’d tried his first idea as Scott and Isaac got changed (Jackson having vanished to the showers to bathe in vanity for what would probably be the next half an hour). “Perhaps I should go home, get some sleep,” he’d tried saying, aimlessly motioning to his stomach in a wordless, and therefore lie-less, way of saying that he still felt tired after yesterday’s bloodloss.

Isaac had scoffed. “As if Derek would make you do anything taxing. All _you_ do is stand there and be witty. _We’re_ the ones who get thrown around the forest.”

Scott had shrugged at him.

Attempt two had been merely a desperate way to buy more time, as Isaac had almost forcibly bustled Stiles out of the changing room. “Textbook!” he’d yelled, pretending to whack his school bag in dismay. “I forgot my textbook – chemistry, those equations, gotta be in by tomorrow – I’ll go fetch it, I’ll catch you up later-”

That time, Scott had turned traitor, frowning and saying, “I thought the equations were for Friday?”

“They are!” Stiles had agreed, nodding and grinning, and waving a finger as he’d argued, “But I want to get it done tonight, I mean, who knows what the future brings – so I’ll just go grab it, be a few minutes late to Derek’s little soiree, okay?”

“ _Hell_ no,” Isaac had answered, wrapping a hand around Stiles’ upper arm. “I’m not showing up, almost-late, without you. I like my bones _intact,_ thanks.”

Stiles’ brain has spun at that, momentarily knocking all fear from his head. _“Wait_ , what _?_ Bones intact? _What_?”

Scott had shrugged. “Derek’s a lot less vicious when you’re-”

“He’s going to be _vicious_ whether Stiles’ there or not, if we don’t leave _now_ ,” Isaac cut in, grabbing Stiles’ bag with one hand, and grabbing plain old _Stiles_ with the other, dragging him off the bench. “Boyd and Erica will already be in the parking lot, waiting, and Jackson can take his own goddam car when he’s finished coiffing his hair.”

Too busy fuming over Derek’s treatment of the pack, Stiles had forgotten all about back-up plan C until Isaac had finally let go of his arm, as they reached Stiles’ jeep in the parking lot. “Scott, ride? Your bag, you probably don’t want to be carrying that-”

And then Erica had shown up out of nowhere, a hand, complete with blood-red nails, landing heavily on Scott’s shoulder. “Well, only if Scott’s afraid I’m going to _beat_ him again,” she’d said, smirking.

Stiles had tried desperately to catch Scott’s eye, shaking his head, mouthing _no, no, please God no,_ but once again Scott’s sporting pride had done all the thinking for him, and he’d rounded on Erica, leaping straight into a huge, in-depth debate over who’d tripped up who, who’d _actually_ run faster – leaving Stiles abandoned.

Scott hadn’t even said goodbye after that. Boyd had, waving a hand back at Stiles as he carried both his and Erica’s bags, and Isaac had yelled, “See you later,” but no, _nothing_ from his supposed-best-friend who knew _exactly_ what he’d be facing.

Because, fast as the werewolves were when they ran, if they left at the same time Stiles left in his jeep, Stiles always arrived first.

It hadn’t been a problem in the past. Hey, it was always fun to get a few quality minutes of let’s-pester-Derek time. Some of his favorite time had been spent chasing Derek around the house or the forest, trying to get straight answers out of him from entirely _not_ straight questions, trying to make him laugh, or even just berating him for something stupid he’d done (cooking usually, his appalling cooking was Stiles’ favorite topic).

But that wasn’t going to happen tonight.

It wasn’t going to happen anymore.

Stiles’ hands shook on the steering wheel, knuckles going white, and almost losing control of the jeep as his grip shook violently.

He’d had seventeen years. That was seven more than he’d expected. And he’d learned so much, _felt_ so much more than he’d felt he’d deserved. And Scott, stupid fucking Scott, with his trusting and his faith and his complete and utter naivety, giving Stiles so much fucking _hope_ – Allison hadn’t been much better, but he’d seen it in her eyes, the uncertainty as to what she was talking to, about what he was going to do –

It wasn’t going to stop at them. It wasn’t going to stop at Derek.

Perhaps he – there would be a way to save all this, salvage the situation, make it _work_ , there had to be –

Surely he couldn’t, wouldn’t have to, wouldn’t be made to –

But he’d have to face Derek. He couldn’t not do that. He’d need Derek. Whatever happened – he’d need Derek.

Almost without conscious thought, his foot pressed down harder on the accelerator. If he could get this over with, without the rest of the pack seeing or hearing it, the better.

It was still light when he pulled into the clearing around the Hale house, only going a few miles per hour over the abandoned track. Coming to a stop, cutting the engine, Stiles couldn’t take his eyes from the front door, hoping to see Derek there. If he was waiting out the front, it’d be calmly. He’d be calm, if he could stand on the porch patiently.

He wasn’t.

Stiles couldn’t even move from behind the steering wheel for a few minutes. His forehead was resting against it, nails digging into the old plastic, breathing deep and desperate. A few minutes of accepting that there was no way to reassure himself, and he managed to open the door.

_This is the situation, this is what I’m dealing with. All I can do, is deal._

The front door was never locked, didn’t even have a lock. It swung open without a creak, but that didn’t mean that Derek couldn’t hear him enter. Stiles didn’t look around, down the corridor, towards the kitchen – he knew where Derek would be.

He pushed the door to the living room open with his left hand, eyes moving from the far side of the room, the doorway to the dining room, across the motley selection of furniture – Peter was lying on the couch, eyes closed, quite possibly asleep, but Stiles didn’t care about him.

Derek wasn’t even that far away. He was standing barely ten feet from the door, tub of plaster by his feet, and a half-fixed wall of bullet holes behind him.

The suddenness of seeing him, so close, made Stiles’ breath catch in his throat. He was – yeah, he was scared. Because Derek was staring at him with a cold, blank gaze he’d only ever seen fixed on Peter before now, and he recognized the way he was clenching his jaw, the way he’d always tighten it to stop himself growling. And Derek’s hand was tightening around the trowel he’d been using to fix the wall, nails digging in to his palm – no, claws, Stiles corrected himself, eyes fixed on the small drops of red that were falling from Derek’s hand. His claws were digging into his palm, making it bleed.

Stiles forced himself to look into Derek’s eyes. He couldn’t hide, try to be shy, pretending, scared. He couldn’t. “You know,” he said simply. Somehow, his voice was steady, but it wasn’t because he’d accepted this – fuck no. He just... he just had to get Derek to understand.

Derek’s eyes shone red for a second, jaw clenching. He nodded, nothing more than a tilt of his head.

“Can I – how do you know? How did you find out?” Stiles asked.

“I told him.”

For the first time ever, it was a rage that almost brought the darkness across Stiles’ eyes. He didn’t look across to Peter. He didn’t know what he would do to him if he did.

He kept looking at Derek.

“I mean, _I_ thought Derek had remembered the warnings about you his mom gave him-”

Peter was talking, as he always was, about things that both didn’t bother Stiles, and scared him. But he was far enough away, voice quiet enough that Stiles could ignore him. He licked his lips, trying to think, trying to figure out – “I’m sorry,” he said eventually. It was the only thing he could even _think_ of, that wasn’t another lie or excuse. “I should have – I’m sorry.”

Derek’s eyes didn’t just shine this time. They blazed.  

He didn’t see or hear the trowel hit the floor, there wasn’t time. There was just two hands grabbing his collar, nails scraping against his skin and his back hitting a wall. “You’re _sorry_?” Derek growled, his face barely more than a few inches from Stiles’ face, teeth not far from Stiles’ skin. “You think that _sorry_ comes anywhere _near_ to cutting it? I thought you were safe, Stiles! I thought you were human! I was even starting to think you were one I could _trust!_ Do you know how hard that was for me, to even begin to think that? And then,” Derek growled, the red in his eyes tugging at the black in Stiles’, the dense scent of wolf surrounding him, the claws drawing blood from beneath Stiles’ skin, “and then Argent, and _Peter_ have to be the ones to tell me that not only have you been _lying_ to me, but that you’re _exactly_ the creature my parents warned me about.”

They’d known. The Hales had known the entire time.

Stiles could feel blood making its way down his chest, but he couldn’t tell if it was his or Derek’s. He didn’t care. He just wanted to beg, explain it all away, stop Derek from talking, from yelling, from looking as if he was seconds from crying. Because Derek wasn’t supposed to cry. And it wasn’t supposed to be Stiles’ fault. An apology started to form on his lips, mouth opening, but he couldn’t – he couldn’t.

“D’you know what they’d say to me, if we were out, and I saw you? If I asked my mom or dad why you smelled different? They’d pull me away, and tell me never to go near you. They’d tell me how you were the ‘Brimstone Child’, how you were a dark thing, a thing from hell. They’d tell me to stay scared of you, to _never_ go near you.” As if he’d only just realized what he was saying, only just realized how close he was to Stiles, he dropped Stiles’ shirt and stepped back.

He looked disgusted.

“And they were right,” he muttered, hands clenching and unclenching at his side. The claws were gone, but his nails were still coated in blood. “I should have avoided you, since the start. Because now you’re going to kill us all.”

He couldn’t even step away from the wall. He couldn’t move. He wanted to – god, he wanted to, wanted to touch Derek, a hand to the shoulder, hold his hand, fucking _hug_ the guy, make it all alright again, like how his dad, his _mom_ had – but he didn’t dare. “I swear,” he said, fear making his words shake, “I swear, I could never hurt you-”

And there it was, a sound he should have expected. Several heavy footsteps, panting, naive teenage laughter.

Stiles closed his eyes, blocking back tears, the desperate blackness threatening to take them over, and breathed deeply. So they were going to find out. There was no stopping that now.

Erica was already stepping into the room when Stiles opened his eyes again. He could feel her freeze, smell Stiles bleeding, see the red in Derek’s eyes and the blood on his hands. But he had to ignore her. He couldn’t afford to care anymore, about who knew. He just had to get Derek to understand, he _had_ to. “I couldn’t hurt _any_ of you, I never could, ever, I swear to God-”

Derek laughed, the raw _loathing_ behind it making Stiles stop, breathless. “You do _not_ get to swear to _God,”_ Derek spat out.

“Then to whoever the _hell_ is listening!” Stiles yelled back, desperation pulling everything,anything from his mouth. “I promise you – _promise_ – I’d rather die _myself_ than be responsible for hurting _anyone_!”

The entire pack was now there, listening. Only Scott knew what was being said. He’d slid to the ground, back against the doorframe, head in his hands. The others – Isaac, Erica, Boyd – were staring at Stiles with... yeah. With fear.

When had he ever expected anything less?

For the first time since Stiles had arrived, Derek’s eyes left Stiles. It wasn’t to look at the pack. It was a flicker downwards, to the side. Nervousness. But then he was staring raw fury at Stiles once more. “Yeah?” he asked, as if checking Stiles’ willingness to die for them. “Well, you might have to.”

 _Oh gods. Oh,_ gods.

“Wh-” Stiles had to swallow, start again. “What do you mean?”

“Argent paid a call this afternoon,” Derek bit out. “Came with a warning. Hunters, heading into town, but they’re not after us, they’re after _you_.” He was leaning forwards, hands stretched towards Stiles, a threat in his actions. “Argent warned us to get out. He says we haven’t dealt with anything like these guys before. They could kill us all, trying to get to _you!”_

If there hadn’t been a wall behind Stiles, he would have stepped back. He should have made to run. But he couldn’t. And he still wanted to move towards him, to make it all better... “Then run,” he whispered. Only as he said it, did he realize... this was what he had to do. “Then get out. Tell me when they get here, and leave me to them. Just leave m-”

“But I _can’t!”_ Derek roared.

Stiles was shaking. God, he was shaking.

For a few moments, Derek didn’t say anything. He just stared, panting, looking – looking betrayed and confused and lost and so goddamn _furious_.

Stiles didn’t know if he was supposed to say something. He didn’t know what he _could_ say.

Eventually, Derek lowered his eyes to the floor, then to his hands. He opened them, closed them, looking, a finger running across the crescents he’d dug into his own palm. “Get out,” he muttered.

Stiles’ breath caught in his throat.

“Get _out!”_

His body moved on instinct, response to the fear and the order, and months of trusting and obeying Derek. He nodded, his mouth opening without words, before he spun on his feet and rushed towards the door. He fell through the pack, not looking at any of them, not able to meet any of their eyes. He ignored Scott’s attempt to call him. He walked away from Erica’s outstretched hand as if it wasn’t there. Even Jackson was muttering his name.

He didn’t stop until he somehow managed to find his keys, somehow, with his hands still shaking, manage to unlock his car and climb in.

He’d heard counting your breathing helped to steady it, helped to make it easier, steadied you. He tried it, for a few minutes, forehead against the steering wheel. It didn’t work.

He raised his head, and tried to wipe away the tears. All he succeeded in doing was adding blood to the water pouring down his face.

He turned on the ignition, and drove away from the Hale house.

*

He didn’t go straight home.

God, no. If his dad saw him like this, he wouldn’t let Stiles go before he’d got Stiles to confess who’d done this to him. His dad was good like that. But he didn’t need that now.

He drove the long way back from the forest, through town, and pulled over just before he got to his street, using the rear-view mirror to make sure his eyes weren’t still red with tears. His shirt had red streaks on it, blood, his hand…

He pulled his plaid shirt further across his chest, hiding the stains, and turned the ignition back on.

It still took him a few minutes before he could get out of the car, and go into the house. Even then, he still didn’t think that he was entirely calm. He didn’t think he’d be able to deal with much more. He just... he’d just have to go to his room, and read, or get his homework done or something.

He couldn’t face his dad, not after... not with everything he’d ever been scared of, coming true, left, right, center...

The moment he stepped inside the house, his dad’s voice echoed through from the kitchen. “I thought you said you were going to cook tonight,” he was saying, over the sound of food frying. He didn’t even sound annoyed. If anything, he seemed to be finding it funny. _Dad..._ “You’ve left me to fend for myself! Never a good move... don’t worry, I’m trying not to destroy any of the pans, and I still maintain that was a completely honest mistake.”

Stiles knew, he _knew_ he shouldn’t have lingered in the doorway to the kitchen for so long. But it was good to see something so familiar, so often joked about, after everything else felt like it was falling apart. “Any idiot knows you put oil in the pan first, dad,” he said, smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. He dropped his school bag against the wall, and took a step inside.

“Yeah, well, I guess that proves I’m not an idiot,” his dad said, turning to smile over his shoulder. “Anyway, I’ve managed to cook steak – I _think_ – want one?”

“Sure,” Stiles said, sliding into a chair at their small table. “Yeah, why not.”

“Oven cooked fries,” he dad kept saying, pulling plates out of a cupboard. “If they’re raw, just tell me, we can stick them in for a bit longer.”

“You shouldn’t be eating fries and steak anyway, dad,” Stiles couldn’t help but point out. He wasn’t surprised when his dad laughed at the old nagging.

“Your fault,” his dad said cheerfully. “If you’d been here to cook...” he loaded the steaks onto the plates, and grabbed cutlery from a drawer, before carrying it all over to the table. He was smiling at Stiles proudly, no doubt feeling all manly at his prowess in the kitchen.

Stiles took the proffered knife and fork, and pulled his plate closer. “I’m sorry.”

Nothing else was said, for a minute or two. Stiles couldn’t quite gather up the energy (or courage) to cut into the steak, and his dad seemed to be finding the right words to say. “I’m just worried,” his dad said eventually, as he cut the first chunk off his steak, his voice deep, serious, different from the light, teasing tone from before. “You’re barely ever at home anymore, and – half the time I don’t know _where_ you are. All the lying you did, last year, all the crime scenes, all that business with Derek Hale, and then, coming home bleeding...”

Stiles nodded, throat dry. He forced himself to try and cut some of the meat, but the shaking was back – and it felt like relief. Like sweet, painful relief. Normal. This was normal.

His knife missed, pressure on the fork slipped, and the steak flew off his plate.

His dad laughed, made a comment, and Stiles smiled and half laughed too as he leaned forwards to collect his steak again. “You don’t want to waste such beautifully cooked food, Stiles,” his dad was saying, and he was leaning forwards, trying to help Stiles scoop it up.

And then his dad fell silent, as Stiles kept laughing, grabbing his steak with his fingers and sliding back into his seat.

Why hadn’t he just gone straight to his room, like he’d planned?

“You’re,” his dad said, and that was when Stiles noticed that he was the only one laughing, when his dad started to speak again, quietly, voice controlled, lower than it had been before. “You’re bleeding. Again.”

He was using his knife to point at where Stiles’ plaid shirt had fallen back to reveal the material that was stuck to his chest, turned black with the blood from the cuts made by Derek’s claws.

It took everything Stiles had left in him not to just give up, right then. Later, he’d wonder why he bothered. “Oh, that, it’s-”

“ _Dammit_ , Stiles!” his dad said, slamming his knife down on the table. Stiles jumped at the bang, as the table shook. “I swear to god, if you say ‘it’s nothing’-”

“Dad-” he tried, but he couldn’t get his voice loud enough, sure enough for it to do anything but make it worse.

“No, don’t you _get_ it, how fucking _scared_ I am?” His dad was yelling, hands hitting the table but never looking at Stiles, not once, casting around as if looking for _something_ , but not looking at Stiles. “You’re _bleeding_ , Stiles, you keep coming home, bleeding and bruised and beaten up so badly that sometimes, I’m _so, close,_ to making you go to the hospital. Some nights it’s fine, and you’re home, and you’re safe, and it’s fine, those are the nights I can breathe but then there’s other nights when you’re _not_ home, you’re _not_ safe and I’m waiting, and all I can remember is that night I was waiting for her to bring you back, and how she didn’t. She fucking _didn’t_ , Stiles, and I’m sitting here, thinking, what if it’s you? What if – the fuck am I supposed to do if that’s _you?”_

Tears made it impossible to see. Shaking made it impossible to breathe. It had been over a year since Stiles’ last panic attack, but he knew the feeling well enough to recognize it then. And it meant he couldn’t move as Dad pulled himself apart before his eyes, and Stiles apart with him.

“But it gets worse, because you won’t tell me anything about it,” he was saying, hands still on the table, head down. He wasn’t looking at Stiles. Still couldn’t look at his son. “Not even to reassure me. And that makes me think, about what could be happening to you, who could be doing this _to_ you, and why, and you tell me it’s nothing to worry about but I just – you’ve lied to me so much over the last year, and sometimes I can forget that I can’t believe you, but there’s times – times when I feel like I – like I don’t know you. God, it’s like you’re not – she knew what to do, when you had moods as a kid, she’d make you _you_ again, but I can’t, and I’m losing you... and you’re letting it happen. Stiles... just... what’s _happened_ to you? Who are...”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.  _Who are you_?

A silent sob shook Stiles’ body violently, leaving him with his eyes pressed closed, and clinging to the table desperately. He couldn’t look at his dad. He couldn’t see if his dad had managed to look at him yet. Didn’t know if his dad was even still there, until he said, with a voice that was just tired of trying, “Just... go to your room, Stiles. Take your homework, and go to your room. Please.”

His chair went flying back as Stiles rose to his feet, hands pressed over his eyes, to stop him seeing, and covering his mouth to stop himself sobbing aloud. It clattered to the floor, a corner of it hitting his shin. He didn’t care, barely felt it.

He didn’t open his eyes until he got to his room, hands rubbing his face before letting go, both hands grabbing at the door handle and pushing it down, pushing the door just open enough to let him pass through. He turned to face it when he shut it, head falling against the wood.

He didn’t feel safety when he’d shut the door, though. He still felt empty, cold. He still felt lost.

A soft voice reached him, nothing more than a whisper. “Stiles-”

Tears fell all the faster as he turned to face Derek, who was sitting on his bed, Stiles’ book in his hands. “I’m sorry,” was all Stiles could say, the words being choked up by sobs, hands shaking by his sides rather than coming up in any kind of defense. _Please, God, I need you to believe me, I need_ \- “I’m sorry, really I am, I didn’t mean – I didn’t know – I just wanted – I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”

But Derek didn’t answer. Frowning, he didn’t take his eyes from Stiles as he put the book down on the bed and rose to his feet. “Sh,” he said, stepping forwards, “Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay.” And he pulled Stiles forwards, into a hug.

The solidity of Derek’s arms, the warmth of his chest and the steadiness of his heartbeat held Stiles in place as he shook and sobbed, face pressed into Derek’s shoulder and hands grabbing desperately at the leather jacket.

He wasn’t Dad. He wasn’t the person Stiles wanted to be holding him.

But he was good enough.

*

“I didn’t realize you knew.”

“You stink. How couldn’t we know?”

“ _I_ stink!? I’m not the one who reeks of wet dog!”

“No, you’re the one who ‘reeks’ of rotten eggs.”

“...In a _good_ way, though. According to Scott.”

“And you’re going to use _Scott_ as a reliable source?”

Stiles laughed, his shoulder shaking where it was pressed against Derek. He was making the whole bed shake. Derek smiled, turning his head just enough to watch him as he laughed, head hanging against his chest, grin almost splitting his face in half, but eyes pressed shut so firmly it looked like they were never going to open again. “Yeah, fair point,” Stiles sighed once he could. He was still smiling, eyes still pressed shut. “I’m uh, sorry about your jacket, by the way.”

“What?”

“You’ve probably got Stiles slobber permanently soaked into it, now,” Stiles explained, finally straightened up and waving a hand absently towards Derek’s shoulder.

Amused, Derek had to smirk. “Uh, for starters, I don’t actually think that’s a thing,” he said, re-positioning himself, so he still fit comfortably around Stiles. He put a hand on the bed behind him, resting his weight on that. The moment he did, Stiles moved, almost imperceptibly, shifting some of his weight onto where his shoulder was leaning against Derek.

It was almost unnoticeable, but Derek felt it mold him.

“Stiles slobber is definitely a thing; I just coated your jacket in it-”

“Okay, just, no, shut up, Stiles,” Derek said, shaking his head. “You don’t need to apologize, my jacket’s been through worse than _you_.”

He waited as Stiles licked his lips, thinking. “You think there’s worse things than me?”

Stiles never had been very good at subtlety. Lips twitching, Derek made a point of saying clearly, “Stiles, _Scott_ is worse than you, and that’s only because his IQ makes him a danger to himself, and others.”

“So I don’t have to say sorry about... all that... then?”

“No,” Derek said. His lips twitched again as he remembered... “Scott said that _I_ should, though.”

“Ah, Scott,” Stiles sighed, with a laugh that was barely more than a puff off air. “Sometimes, I actually think he’d a decent friend.”

“You should. He almost had me scared of him.”

Eyes finally opening, Stiles turned to look at Derek in shock. “Really?”

“No.”

Stiles held his gaze for a few seconds, eyes narrowed, as if waiting for him to crack. But Derek was practiced at holding a poker face, and it wasn’t until Stiles looked back down, smiling, that he let himself smile.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and there was a minute’s frantic swearing and scrabbling as Derek tried to tug it from his jean’s pockets without having to move or stand up. He could feel Stiles trying not to laugh, his body vibrating with humor, but he didn’t care. It came free eventually, and he relaxed back into position as he slid the screen open, clicking on the message from Isaac.

For a second or two he considered the words, but there wasn’t really a decision to be made. “They’ve arrived,” he said, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible. “Just now. According to Isaac, they’re heading to the local motel for the night.”

When Stiles froze, understanding, Derek had to fight the urge to pull Stiles back into a hug, or even just put his arm around his shoulders – he told himself that the small contact they had would have to be enough. “The hunters?”

Derek nodded. “Boyd’s idea, actually.” That the beta had started to plan how to protect Stiles before Derek had even consciously decided they _would_ , had been one of the things to make Derek understand. That, and how carelessly the betas had responded to hearing that Stiles was a 'monster' – _like us_ , Isaac had said. Apparently, for them, it was just that simple. And...yeah, after hearing Scott explain it all to them... it had sounded like it was. _Watch for strangers_ , had been Boyd’s suggestion, _and follow any car that stinks of gunpowder_. As the others had divided up the town between them, decided who was going to watch where, Derek had tried to say something, yell about betrayal and danger and risking their lives for someone who’d been lying to them – and Erica had slapped him. _You said yourself, Derek_ , she’d said, firmly, fearlessly. _We can’t just leave him._ And as he stood there, shocked, and above everything _confused,_ Scott had just said, _it’s Stiles. C’mon, Derek – you must see that. We can’t let Stiles die._

Peter hadn’t said anything. He hadn’t moved from the sofa, the entire afternoon.

The pack had ignored Derek as they continued planning, so it had been easy to leave without them noticing.

He’d been planning to go and confront Stiles, try to figure out who – what – to try and get some _answers_. But he’d arrived in time to hear his dad yell at him, for Stiles to come crashing into his room, shaking and in tears – and he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything but try and comfort him.

If anything could have proved that this boy, demon or not, was _his_ Stiles, it was that.

“Okay,” Stiles said, eyes falling shut again. “Okay. I’ll – I can pack tonight, tomorrow, I’ll take the jeep, I’ll go-”

“You’re not going anywhere.”

Stiles turned to gape at him, moving away from Derek. His shoulder felt light without Stiles pressed against it. “I can’t stay here!” he cried, eyes wide and mouth open. He looked horrified. “For _starters_ I’m not going to risk you, _any_ of you being in danger! But it – it’s _more_ than that, it’s my – my dad, I can’t lie to him anymore and I _definitely_ can’t tell him the truth, it’d kill him, it’d... I’m lucky I’ve managed to pretend this long. It can’t last forever, Derek, so I might as well just, just pack my bags, leave a note a _go_ , get you out of firing line – it’s the simplest answer, Derek. It’d be better for everyone.”

“For everyone?” Derek echoed, astounded. “How-” He wanted to yell. But he stopped, forced himself to breathe, before saying, “You think that you just vanishing won’t kill your dad? After the argument you just had? I can’t let you do that to yourself. To _him_. And you’re not leaving me, either. You can’t leave the pack.” He licked his lips, thinking, trying anything, trying to get Stiles to _listen_ to him. “You think we’d last more than a week without you? We’d rip each other to _shreds_.”

It was working, slightly. Stiles was smiling, but his eyes were still wet with tears, hands still clenched. “No, I won’t let you get hurt-”

Stiles moved to stand up, but like hell was he going to walk away. Not even thinking, Derek grabbed his arm, holding him in place. “Nobody _cares_ what you want,” he said, and as Stiles kept looking to the floor, ignoring him, he placed his hand on the side of Stiles’ face, forcing him to meet his gaze. “Don’t you get that, Stiles? None of us care what you want for us, we just want you _safe_. Please, for God’s sake, just trust us to help you. I’m not going to let you lose all this. I’m _not._ ”

_I can’t lose you, Stiles. Don’t make me lose you, too._

Stiles was begging him, eyes pleading desperately, one hand reaching up to try to prize Derek’s hand from his cheek, but his fingers just got caught between Derek’s.

 _I’m not letting you go, not that easy_.

“If you run,” he added, voice low, trying, _trying_ to get across how _ridiculous_ Stiles’ protests were, “I’ll be running after you, to drag you right back.”

“You hated me, not even an hour ago,” Stiles breathed, looking so incredulous, so hopeful. “Why are you-”

“I didn’t hate you,” Derek said. “I felt betrayed. But I didn’t have a reason to.”

“Your – your parents-”

“They didn’t know you,” Derek said quietly. “They were judging you, from what you are. Of all people, we should know that what you are is something you can’t help.”

Stiles almost smiled at that. “Getting hairy once a month’s a bit different from being a servant of the Devil.”

“But I don’t get hairy only once a month,” Derek pointed out. “And you don’t serve the Devil.”

“No,” Stiles agreed, quietly, barely audible. “I guess not.”

And as Derek realized, that Stiles was giving in, that Stiles was going to _stay_ , his started to breathe again.

_I’m going to protect you. I swear, I’ll protect you with everything I have. You’ll never be hurt again._

It wasn’t a shocking revelation, realizing exactly how much he’d give to let Stiles stay alive. He’d been figuring it out for a while. But it was good to finally know, in a way. It was good to feel certain.

He pulled his hand from Stiles’ face, fingers curling in as he lowered it. “Thank you,” he said, so quietly he wasn’t even sure Stiles had heard him.

But whether he had or not, Stiles was still smiling. “Wow,” he said, and he sounded normal again, loud and cocky and sure, affectionately mocking. “That was – that was almost _emotional_ , that moment there. The things you learn about a guy after you slobber on them.”

“You tell anyone, and I’ll rip your guts out,” Derek promised, the glare falling onto his face easily.

Stiles laughed back, as he always did. “So what’s the plan, then?”

 _For me to stand guard as you get some peace_. “You, and the pack, are all skipping school tomorrow,” Derek decided, making his mind up as he spoke, and rising to his feet to leave. “You’re coming to the Hale house instead.”

“Is that really a good idea? I mean, Scott’s already failing two classes-”

“We can protect you at the Hale house, we can’t protect you at school,” Derek said. Stiles didn’t argue with that. “I’ll find the hunters, talk to them, try and convince them not to kill you. You’re not evil, I can’t believe they won’t see that.” He opened the window, swinging it wide enough to lean out and look up, finding the drainpipe he’d need to swing from, to swing himself onto the roof.

“What if they don’t listen?” Stiles asked. “What if they insist on sending me back to Hell, what then?”

“Then we’ll fight for you.” Derek turned from the window, looking at Stiles one last time. For the first time in a while, he couldn’t read Stiles’ reaction to what he’d said. “Sleep,” he said softly, nodding towards the bed. “Get some rest. You’re safe, I promise.”

Stiles smiled back at him. “Yeah, I believe you.”

Derek nodded, shortly, before finally jumping out of the window and swinging himself onto the roof.

It was sloped, and the layered tiles made it uncomfortable, but he’d had to sleep in worse places. As he tried to settle down, tried to find a place to lie that was both stable and relatively painless, he heard Stiles get changed and slide into the bed.

He knew that Stiles would figure out he was still there. Stiles wasn’t an idiot, he’d pick up on the lack of thud when Derek didn’t land on the ground. He didn’t care. He’d probably made it too obvious how much he was putting into this, anyway.

Finally finding a decent spot, he lay back, hands behind his head and staring up at the sky. He closed his eyes, but his ears stayed alert, listening to the slightest sound from streets around.

_You’re safe._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Battle lines have been drawn...   
> Chapter 3 coming next... oh ho ho this is gonna be FUN...
> 
> Also, I hope you weren't listening to Mumford and Sons whilst reading some of the more... sensitive... parts of that. I've been told that it broke my english beta's soul when she made that mistake...
> 
> [THERE'S NOW ARTWORK WITH THIS SERIES](http://mrsloki.tumblr.com/post/30194080279/more-fan-art-for-avintageleathersoul-and-her-rad) [BECAUSE THERE ARE BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE IN THE WORLD. ](http://mrsloki.tumblr.com/post/30341153647/one-more-fan-fart-for-dannyboy-to-thedoctor-for) The BAMF Stiles depicted in the art will have more of an appearance soon...
> 
> Thank you, THANK you for reading, I love you all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The answer's yes, btw, you're allowed to get annoyed at me for how long it's taken me to write this. In my defence, final year of school - I've got so much to do it's not even funny. 
> 
> Anyway. Though late. Enjoy!

Stiles lay in bed, waiting until the sounds of his dad moving around downstairs ended, with the near-inaudible click of the front door.

He counted, reaching 126 seconds before the engine of the cruiser started up.

With a sigh, Stiles turned to bury his face into his pillow. _This_ _isn’t good. This really isn’t good, at all..._

He got up soon after that. Each movement he made was slow, without thought. Routine. Going through motions. Shower, teeth, get dressed, make bed, downstairs for breakfast. Bowl of cereal and glass of juice, ate silently whilst HE sat at the breakfast bar.

Only one thing he did was different from his usual mornings. From their garage, he grabbed the huge bag they’d used the one time they’d tried camping, and moved it to his room, shoving it under his bed in a poor attempt to hide it.

As no one else was going to be realistic about his situation, it seemed that he’d have to be prepared on his own.

If the sight of the Camaro parked at the bottom of his drive surprised him in any way, it was that Derek had left him long enough to get it.

He slid into the front seat, not looking at Derek until he’d put his seatbelt on.

Derek was frowning at him, that strange combination of uncertainty, confusion and concern that was becoming too familiar. “Okay?”

Stiles nodded. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

*

He’d turned the radio up loud (he’d brought it), turned on all the lights they had (battery powered, bought from various DIY stores by everyone), and was lying on the couch (from someone’s front garden, he’d forgotten whose) with a book in his hands (that actually _was_ something Derek had contributed to the make-house-nice-again scheme), but Stiles was still feeling... ridiculously cold and alone.

Isaac had popped in to check in on Stiles, and vanished again. He hadn’t said why, but Stiles assumed it was some part of the big plan. Erica and Boyd were watching the motel. Jackson and Lydia were having breakfast in a local diner, waiting for their time on surveillance duty at 11 o’clock on the dot. Peter was probably hiding upstairs. Or out. Scott was probably still at home, asleep.

Derek had dropped him off, then gone to mope outside.

Well, he’d _called_ it guarding, but he was brooding and moping. Stiles knew the signs. It was in the shrug of the shoulders, the lack of a scowl or smile, and the complete silence. He was moping.

And Stiles was getting bored, restless, and depression was starting to settle in.

 _Fuck this. Let’s go do something_.

He dropped the book the floor and swung himself upright, jumping up so his feet landed on the couch, then vaulting over the back – if not quite as elegantly as he’d wanted, then at least no one was there to see it.

“D’you have any chocolate chips?” he yelled as he sauntered through to the ‘kitchen’ (and yes, those skeptical quotation marks were necessary), knowing full well that wherever Derek was, he’d be able to hear. “I bet you don’t. Which is a travesty. I mean, everyone needs chocolate chips. They’re the staple snacking food. It’s the whole forbidden factor, coming downstairs at midnight and raiding the cooking cupboard – wait, do you even _have_ a cooking cupboard?”

It was a genuine concern, considering how sparse Derek’s kitchen still was. It had a running sink, island unit, fridge, oven, microwave and teapot, and a selection of mismatched cupboards, which was all well and good, but Stiles had only ever eaten take-out at the Hale house. Perhaps a slice of toast if he’d been there all night, and needed breakfast, but bread and jelly didn’t make a well-stocked kitchen.

His fears were confirmed when he opened the fridge, to find a gallon of milk, a few apples, a tub of margarine and five beers.

There wasn’t even any _juice_.

“Don’t like chocolate chips.”

The suddenness of Derek’s voice, and the _proximity_ of it – the guy must be, like, _two inches_ away – almost sent Stiles falling into the fridge as his heart tried to restart. “ _Jesus_ – one, we _really_ need to have an intervention about that sneaking up thing, and b, _how_ can you not like chocolate chips?” he yelled, out of pure annoyance of being terrified, spinning around to glare at Derek. His brain whirred to catch up, gave his tongue a small prod, and he said without a pause, “And if you mention the one/b situation, I swear-” He left it hanging there, feeling that Derek’s imagination would do the hard work for him.

Derek was standing – okay, a _bit_ more than two inches away, but not by much – grinning ever so slightly. He didn’t go for the jab at Stiles’ grammatical mistake (perhaps deciding it was too obvious), and instead said, sounding so _smug,_ “Smash up a chocolate bar. Gives you bigger chunks of chocolate.”

And… that was unexpected. “You bake?”

The smile only widened, losing its smugness to a slightly surprised tilt of his lips. “No.”

Stiles waited, seeing if he was going to elaborate. No… okay… “Well, seeing as you don’t even have any _butter_ , I guess chocolate piece preferences aren’t too important right now.” He sighed, stepping around Derek to fling open cupboards randomly, hoping vaguely… cans, bottles, more cans, oh, _there’s_ the juice, why the hell isn’t it in the fridge… “You don’t have anything. Flour. Not even _flour_. How do you expect to _deep fry_ stuff without flour, dude? It’s like the first key kitchen ingredient-”

“Well, a deep fat fryer might be the first step-”

“And do you ever intend to eat _anything_ that won’t last past two-thousand-and-forever?” Stiles tutted, opening and closing the final cupboard door, before almost dancing back around the kitchen, closing all the doors with a variety of limbs. He closed the last one with a neat flick of his hips, hands over his head like a flamenco dancer and everything.

No, he didn’t know why.

Possibly for Derek’s raised eyebrow, and barely smothered smiled.

Ignoring it, save for grinning himself, Stiles shook his head and said, “You’re going to ruin your ickle wolfie stomach with all this processed and preserved food.”

“I eat pizza,” Derek replied, completely deadpan.

Stiles narrowed his eyes at him for a good few minutes, just _waiting_ for the twitch of the lips as the smirk tried to pierce through. “Pizza doesn’t count,” he snapped eventually, and _now_ Derek smirks, of _course_.

“Actually, I think you’ll find it was declared a vegetable. Vegetables count.”

“I – that – how did you even find _out_ about that? You’re a hermit!”

“A hermit who’s surrounded by teenagers 24/7,” Derek pointed out, and Stiles had to give him that. “You told me. Last time you were ’round, and pushing for us to order in pizza. Isaac wanted Indian, Lydia Chinese, but you argued for pizza, saying it was legally a vegetable and therefore healthier.”

Stiles actually remembered that night. It had started off as an official meeting, ended up as a huge pack-bundle of food and booze and cheesy games, with everyone falling asleep in the lounge. Stiles had managed to grab the couch, after Derek had fallen to the floor, giving in after all of Stiles’ moaning. “Well, I do make a very convincing argument,” he mused. They’d gone for the pizza in the end – Derek’s executive decision – ordering a full twenty-three 16”s for the nine of them.

Derek shrugged. “You’re the most annoying, if that’s what you mean.”

As a well-built reflex, Stiles opened his mouth to retort wittily, but he forced himself to stop. Off topic. He’s supposed to be lecturing Derek on the cons of only eating from a _can_. Or pizza box. “No but dude, seriously, you need to eat something _fresh_ once in a while, I don’t mean freshly-caught rabbits-”

“Stiles, I don’t-”

“Like a casserole. Who doesn’t like a casserole? Buy some veggies and some lamb, and stew yourself up a casserole!”

Point finally made – and that was an impressively small amount of sentences, Stiles was proud of himself – Stiles stopped, and waited for Derek’s reply, most likely coming in the form of a poor argument just _asking_ to be shot down.

“I’ve never made a casserole,” Derek said simply, crossing his arms as if to say, _mock for this and you will go_ down _._

What the hell. Stiles was probably going to be shoved against a wall at some point in this conversation anyway. “Never made a _casserole?_ How is that – what do you – how have you _survived?_ ”

Derek shrugged again. “I made pasta once. I was then told never ever to touch a frying pan, oven, or burner again. I tend to order in. Or microwave.”

“If you’re making pasta using a frying pan, no wonder…” Stiles mused, smirking.

Then Derek did something strange.

His head fell down against his chest, and he _smiled_. “Yeah, I guess that could have been one of the problems,” he admitted, almost sounding abashed.

Stiles hadn’t seen Derek react like that before. But he suddenly, desperately, wanted to see it again.

“Why do you want chocolate chips and butter, anyway?” Derek asked, after he was done being all… oh gods, he’d been _cute_.

“I, uh, wanted to make cookies,” Stiles answered, brain not entirely working. “I wanted to bake something, baking helps when I’m… nervous…” He caught up with his mouth after the confession had already come tripping off it, and almost cursed. _Yeah, good going Stiles_ , _let’s just go ahead and confess to, not_ only _being scared, but also a compulsive baker. Sure, that’ll get you respected… what demon_ bakes? “Okay, bring on the sarcastic comment,” he sighed, watching Derek, waiting.

But Derek didn’t comment on the baking, or the being scared. He just thought for a second, before saying, “I used to tease Laura for baking. Then she’d slam me into the ground. I think I’ve learnt my lesson.”

Before Stiles could reply – as _if_ he could, because seriously, how _do_ you reply to a comment like that – Derek pulled his phone out of his pocket, checking the time on the screen before flicking it open, fingers dancing not all that fast over the buttons. “Cookies?” he checked, voice a mutter as he focused on whatever he was texting. “I’ll get Isaac to pick up some ingredients on his way back.”

That was… a nice gesture. “Where is Isaac, anyway?” Stiles asked, deciding that actually saying ‘thanks’ would be far too awkward. “He never actually said, he just upped and vanished-”

“Watching your dad,” Derek said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. “I don’t think the Winchesters would go after him, but I thought it’d be safer not to risk it.”

Stiles’ mouth fell open, and he just _stared_. This wasn’t what Derek did, Derek wasn’t this considerate person, he was brash and muscle-orientated and physical… except, apparently he wasn’t.

Seeming to register the silence coming from Stiles, Derek looked up from beneath his eyelashes. “I told you,” he said simply, “I’m not letting you lose any of this.”

“That’s-” gods, how do you _speak_ , “I mean – you didn’t have – fuck it, thank you.”

Derek shrugged, looking up and slipping his phone back into his jeans pocket. “It’s no big deal. We’ve got a big enough pack.”

No _big deal?_ For Stiles, _nothing_ was a bigger deal than his dad, and Derek _knew_ that, and Stiles was all ready to open his mouth and tell Derek off for being a modest, careless, selfless – all things considered, it was probably a good thing that his phone went off and stopped him from saying anything.

He didn’t bother checking the caller ID, before wedging it against his ear and saying, “Yo.”

“Dude, where are you? Your house is totally empty.”

Opposite him, Derek rolled his eyes.

Stiles couldn’t blame him. “That’s cos I’m not _at_ home, genius.”

“Yeah, I’d figured that bit out, that’s why I’m calling you to ask where you are! You room is a dump, by the way.”

“Says you! And I’m at the Hale house, something that, apparently, you were told yesterday.” Derek scowled at that, nodding once. Apparently Scott _had_ been told. “Do you _ever_ listen?”

“Nah, I just assume you or Allison’ll tell me,” Scott admitted. “Aw, gross, Stiles, your clothes are covered in blood!”

“Then stop going through my clothes!” Stiles yelled. “Get your dumbass ass over here pronto, ’kay? I’m baking.”

“I’ll be there!”

Yeah, food was always a good lure.

“Ugh, I feel like his mom sometimes,” Stiles groaned, and was rewarded with a slight smile from Derek. “So,” he continued, chucking his phone onto the work surface, “Are you gonna go and be an absolutely atrocious host, sat outside and brooding and being a general creeper, or are you going to stay here and keep poor Stiles company, and try being sociable?”

As Derek turned to look towards the front of the house, Stiles figured he’d lost the guy again, that he was going to go and be responsible, or whatever he called it. But instead, Derek sighed, turning back to face Stiles and getting comfortable against the cupboard he was leaning on. “I guess I could do with the practice,” he said.

Stiles grinned.

*

“Baseball.”

“Mm.”

“Seriously. _Baseball?”_

Derek shrugged. “It made more sense to me than running around with a net.”

“Hey!” Stiles yelled, brandishing a dough-covered wooden spoon towards him, “Lacrosse is a noble sport!”

“I’m sure.”

With a cry of frustration, and flinging his hands up (a puff of flour trailing behind them), Stiles spun away to the oven. “No, _no_ , don’t do _that_ either!” he groaned, trying to peer through the foggy window, trying to make out the small mounds of cookies, “That whole passive-insulting mockery thing you do, I’m onto you, and I’m having none of it!”

“Of course you’re not.”

Stiles himself couldn’t figure out whether the noise he made next was a growl, scream or wordless muttering of frustration, but it came out of his mouth anyway, hands curling into claws and shaking at Derek as he half turned towards him.

Derek had his eyebrows raised, face utterly impassive and innocent.

Stiles stared back, blank faced, for a few more minutes, before flinging himself back to the oven and tugging the door open. “Right!” he said, “that’s it! No cookies for _you!_ ”

“Hey, now, that’s not fair,” Derek protested, and Stiles could hear the smile in his voice.

“You must be disciplined, or you’ll never learn,” Stiles said, reaching out and prodding at the nearest cookie. He grinned. Oh, but he was good. He grabbed the oven gloves with his usual flair, carefully pulling out the baking tray, and turning to show them to Derek like a proud mama. “Just how me mamaw used to make ‘em,” he said, grinning down at his precious babbies.

“Why the accent?”

Stiles frowned. “I’m not entirely sure.” He turned back around just late enough to catch Derek’s slight smile. “Seriously, though, this is a mother’s recipe right here. You should be honored that I’m wasting it on you.”

“Wasting?”

“You know what I mean,” Stiles said impatiently, wafting the cooling rack in the air, before setting it beside the tray of cookies. “But if you show even the slightest touch of disappointment in them-”

“Shouldn’t you be using a spatula to do that?” Isaac asked, cutting right into Stiles’ warnings as he suddenly appeared in the kitchen, walking over to lean against the work surface to Stiles’ left. He slowly started to lean backwards, eyes fixed on the cookies Stiles was flicking onto the cooling rack with his fingers.

Stiles really should have seen it coming.

But, before Stiles could react, Isaac had snatched up a cookie, raising it to his open mouth.

Now, there are many indecencies that Stiles will be very civilized about. But stealing his _food_ wasn’t one of them.

With a cry of, “AH!” Stiles raised a hand and focused really _hard_ on the cookie. He’d never had to work against someone’s actual, physical strength before when using his demonic abilities, but, from the way that Isaac seemed incapable of moving the cooking the few inches to his mouth, he was managing to hold it in place.

A small furrow appeared on Isaac’s forehead as he frowned with confusion from his hand, the cookie in it, to Stiles’ hand and finally the look of pure indignation on Stiles’ face. “Wh – that’s not fair!”

“Aha, yes, and how often have you abused your wolfy powers on me and more importantly _what exactly young man do you think you’re doing with that cookie?”_

From Derek, Stiles heard a noise that, if asked about, would definitely _not_ be a snort of laughter.

Isaac looked near terrified, eyes huge. “Checking for poison?” he asked uncertainly, trying out a smile.

Stiles swallowed his own smile, and just narrowed his eyes further. “You _dare_ suggest I would poison my lovely cookies?”

There was no way Derek could possibly deny he was laughing now. It might still sound vaguely like coughing, and it might still be behind a closed fist, but it was definitely, indubitably laughter.

Eyes widening even more, Isaac tried another approach. “I’ve never had home-made cookies before?”

It took a few seconds for the words to register. Frozen, still trying to process, Stiles blinked a few times. “…You what?”

Isaac shrugged, as if it was _no big thing_. “Not like Dad ever cooked.”

Stiles mentally let go of the cookie so suddenly that Isaac, not expecting it, almost knocked out a tooth with the force he was pulling it with. “Eat the cookie!” Stiles demanded, picking up the cooling rack and shoving it at Isaac. Confused, and with a cookie half in his mouth, Isaac scrambled to hold it as it threatened to spill cookies all down his chest, “Eat it! Eat more! Eat ten! Just eat a damn cookie before I start crying over your childhood!”

Derek wasn’t even hiding his laughter now.

“The cookies are ready?” Scott asked, stepping into the kitchen, and momentarily drawing everyone’s attention. He looked betrayed and over-the-moon excited all at once, eyes fixed on the cookies as they slowly slipped off the tilted tray caught between Isaac and Stiles. “Dude, why didn’t you tell me?”

As he started around the left side of the island unit, Stiles stared at him with abject horror, before snapping back to Isaac, pressing the last of the cookies at him and yelling, “Run, Isaac! Save them! Protect the cookies!” he shoved him around the other side of the island unit.

It was clear that Isaac had no idea what was going on, but he obediently ran, laughing around the cookie still caught between his teeth, hugging the tray close and dodging around Derek as Stiles called on encouragement and Scott yelled after him. Stiles dodged the punch Scott threw at him with practice, yelling out, “Think of the children in Africa, Isaac! Don’t let him get his filthy paws on the poor cookies, he’ll _eat them all!”_

Laughing and dancing and cursing Stiles all the way, the two werewolves sprinted out into the hall, Scott almost crashing into Derek after Isaac vanished from sight, due to his desperation to reach the cookies. Derek had almost collapsed against the unit, grinning so hard it looked like his cheeks really hurt. Stiles walked around, listening to the scuffles and bursts of laughter and pain from the hallway.

He reached Derek at the same time there was a huge metallic crash, to yelps of pain, and two loud thuds, swiftly followed by a triumphant ‘Ah-ha!’ and laughter. Grinning himself, Stiles leaned back against the counter, looking out to the corridor. As Derek straightened up beside him, not looking, Stiles held a hand out towards him, and the cookie he’d been holding inside. It was still really warm, not settled just yet, and had crumbled a bit, but Derek still took it with a smile.

Stiles nibbled at the one he’d managed to save for himself, waiting in silence.

A few minutes later, Derek licked his fingers, nodding, and said, “Not bad.”

Stiles grinned behind his cookie.

 Slowly, laughing and bleeding only ever so slightly, Scott and Isaac re-emerged back in the kitchen, shoving each other playfully.

Their hands were conspicuously empty.

Stiles blinked, eyes darting between Isaac, to his hands, to the corridor visible behind them, and Scott. “You _ate_ ,” he bit out, “ _all the cookies?”_

He watched, more than a little impatiently, as Scott and Isaac winced, exchanging a quick glance. “If it helps,” Isaac said, voice the perfect tone of innocence, a thumb slowly rising to point over his shoulder, “I think a few rolled under the chest of drawers-”

It was starting to become a law of physics, Stiles was starting to realize, that whenever he was about to have great fun by verbally pummeling his friends (in a nice way, of course, they loved it really), someone’s phone would go off.

In this instance, it was Scott’s. And from the way his adorable little puppy face just lit up, the caller was Allison.

Stiles turned his head slightly, to catch Derek’s eye. Derek had one eyebrow raised. They shared a moment of mutual despair, before turning back to look at Scott.

“What? There? Okay, okay… yeah, I’ll be there ASAP? Back window, got it… ’kay. See you soon. Love you.”

Stiles almost wanted to give him a round of applause for not taking ten minutes to hang up.

“They’re visiting Chris?” Derek asked, frowning. “How the hell did they get past Erica and Boyd?”

Wait. What? “Hold up, do you mean-” Stiles tried, but the pack was doing that annoying thing where they actually prioritized Stiles’ safety above Stiles actually knowing what the _hell_ was going on.

Scott shrugged. “Dunno. But they’re gonna be at the Argent’s any second, apparently. Just called from the road.”

“Anyone gonna tell me-”

But Derek was still ignoring him, eyes lowered as the cogs visibly clicked into action between his ears. “Okay,” he muttered eventually, “Okay – Isaac – call Erica and Boyd, get them back here.” Isaac nodded, already backing up into the corridor. “Scott, do as you said – I want to know everything they say, write it down if you have to, record it on your phone, and for god’s sake be _careful_ , okay?”

Just like Isaac, Scott nodded, pulling the keys to his mother’s car from his pocket. He smiled at Stiles before leaving the room, nothing more than a twitch of his lips before he headed out. Stiles vaguely heard the door slam shut, and the engine starting up a few seconds later.

Stiles barely waited until he was gone before spinning on Derek. “What the hell just happened?” he asked. Truthfully, he already knew. But it’s always hard not to hold onto the hope of being proved wrong.

He watched as Derek let his eyes flicker nervously over to the doorway, to the front of the house where the others were leaving, as he licked his lips, before finally looking across to Stiles with a renewed determination. “The hunter slipped past Erica and Boyd. That was Allison calling to let us know, Chris expects them there any minute. I can-” he stopped, breaking off, eyes darting around again. Stiles stayed silent. In part, he was just waiting for Derek to start back up again, but it wasn’t just that. He was trying to piece together what options he had left. Not what options Derek _thought_ he had left. What actually remained for him to do. “I can have Scott listen in,” Derek continued, meeting Stiles’ eyes again, “Isaac’s getching Erica and Boyd, we’ll bring them back here. You – I’ll –”

“Peter?” Stiles prompted carefully.

“Yes,” Derek said, nothing more than a mutter as his hand slipped to his pocket, reaching for his mobile. “I’ve got to call him, let him know what’s happened – the hunters, they won’t be able to get past him, your dad’ll be safe, I promise.”

“I know,” Stiles said. “I trust you.”

It was another one of those occasions where Stiles didn’t realize what he’d said until the words had actually come out of his mouth. His eyes widened, and his mind, trying to catch up with what was going on, made his tongue trip over itself. “I mean, I can rely on you – you’re letting me – you know what – helping me, and you – dangerous, but you’re still-”

Derek’s lips twitched, and he shook his head slightly, as he started to punch in Peter’s number. “Shut up, Stiles,” he said calmly, still doing that almost-smile. “I know.”

Stiles stopped, mouth hanging open. A half smile slipped onto his face, too, as he watched Derek call Peter in complete silence.

Finally, Derek clicked the call button, and lifted the phone to his ear. He moved to leave the room, and there was an awkward, uncertain moment where it looked like he was reaching out to Stiles – just to lay a hand on his shoulder, or touch his arm – a goodbye that was a comfort and a reassurance, and silent – but the hand didn’t quite make it. It froze in the air, hovering uncertainly.

So Stiles reached out to it. He wrapped his fingers haphazardly around Derek’s, giving them a light squeeze, before letting go. His thumb brushed against the back of Derek’s hand, the slightest touch, before his arm fell back down to his side.

Derek met his gaze for a second, Stiles’ soft smile being met with confusion. But then Derek blinked, his brow smoothed out, and eyes lightened visibly.

He blinked again, and his entire face fell into focus. “Hi, yeah, Peter,” he said suddenly, turning and striding from the room, “There’s a situation…”

After a few seconds of looking after Derek, Stiles fell back against the island work surface. A finger poked at the edge of his smile. A startled laugh burst from him.

Isaac returned when Stiles was still absently rubbing at the smile. The teenager glanced around the kitchen, before asking, almost carelessly, “Where’s Derek?”

“Calling Peter,” Stiles replied, just as absently, but slowly trying to draw himself back out of his thoughts.

Isaac nodded, tossing his phone between his hands. “Okay. So you know, Erica and Boyd are on their way back; they’ll be about ten minutes.” He turned, probably to head out to go and tell Derek.

Stiles had other plans.

“Hey, can you hold up a minute?”

Clearly confused, Isaac obediently turned back.

The teenager was wide eyed and innocent, a kid who had lost his mother, then brother, then father, who’d never had home-made cookies and had a bike where other kids could use the car. He’d bring a packed lunch to school every other day, would always go straight home after school, never went to a party.

For the first time, he had everything to lose.

Stiles didn’t hesitate as he said, “I need you to promise me something.”

It was depressing how quickly the kid tied himself to the demon. “Sure, anything,” Isaac said, stepping forwards to lean against the side, next to Stiles.

“I need you to promise me you’ll help me escape,” Stiles said. He turned his head, wanting to see Isaac’s reaction.

He was smart. Smarter than Scott, definitely. And more realistic than Derek. Slowly, Isaac nodded, head low. “You don’t think we’ve got a chance.”

“I don’t _care_ if we’ve got a chance!” Stiles yelled suddenly, almost surprising even himself. “None of you get what you’re doing, what you’re risking, what you’re risking it _for!_ You’re all so young, and so hopeful, and I’m old and dark and essentially _bad_ and I’m gonna be the death of you!”

Isaac had closed his eyes, but he was still nodding. He thought he knew. He thought he knew what he was letting himself in for.

Fuck it. Fuck it _all_. Groaning, Stiles let his head fall into his hands, rubbing at his eyes, hands brushing over his hair. “None of you owe me anything. Hell, I owe _you_. It’s safest for me to just get out of Beacon Hills – the hunters will either catch me elsewhere, where none of you are on the firing line, or they won’t. I can protect myself. I think Derek still thinks I’m the helpless human, who needs protecting-”

“No,” Isaac cut in, voice so mild, “Derek likes to think you’re his to protect, human or not. You could be armed to the teeth and twice as deadly as he is, and he’d still be pushing you behind him in a fight.”

“I _am_ twice as deadly as he is,” Stiles muttered. Isaac chuckled. Stiles didn’t say anything for a while. There were too many ways for it to _be_ said. Eventually, he simply said, “He doesn’t need to protect me, Isaac.”

Isaac nodded. “And you’re not going to let him.”

“If it means him dying? No. Never.”

 Smiling slyly, Isaac tilted his head to look across to Stiles. “You don’t care about the rest of us, then?” he asked casually.

It took a moment for what he meant to sink in, and by the time it did, Stiles was gaping like a fish. “What? No! I mean, of course I do – we were – I just-”

Isaac laughed, head falling back. He knocked his shoulder against Stiles, still chuckling and shaking his head as he said, “I know, moron. We _all_ know.”

Stiles wished _he_ did. But he’d spent too long building up the role of the knowledgeable one to be asking apparently stupid questions now.

“What do you need me to do?” Isaac asked, smile barely falling at all as he straightened up, fully turning to look at Stiles this time.

Honestly? “I don’t know,” Stiles admitted, shrugging. “I guess – I just wanted to know there was someone who’d do the sensible thing, rather than the emotional thing.”

He didn’t get a reply to that straight away. Isaac just stood there, eyes lowered as he considered what Stiles had said. Eventually, his mouth twisted into a lopsided, dark ironic smile. “Yeah, I guess that’d be me. You get the passports ready, Rodger, and I’ll get digging.”

Stiles let his mouth fall open, an eyebrow rising and one eye wincing as he tried to figure out the reference. It was a poor attempt at humor. He didn’t think he could do humor as he planned to run away.

“Great Escape,” Isaac supplied, smiling a bit again. “My favourite movie.”

Stiles smiled back, meaning to say something like a suggestion that they could rent it, watch it tonight, make a deal of it with pizzas or Chinese, the pack, in the living room. But a loud noise distracted him – a crash, from the front of the house.

Derek had punched a wall.

“How much do you think he heard?” Stiles asked, not bothering to keep his voice low.

“Most of it,” Isaac muttered back, looking, like Stiles, to the front of the house. “He’ll try and stop you leaving, you realize.”

Smiling wryly, Stiles shook his head. “No, he won’t. He’d let me go, if that was what I really wanted. He’d just come after me …”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Isaac look back across at him. But he didn’t look away from where Derek was, probably, pacing at the front of the house. “Would you mind?”

Grinning now, Stiles didn’t answer. He got the feeling Isaac knew the answer.

*

“Yo dude… are you gonna pick up your phone… no… of course… okay, well, just asking if you could swing round by my house, grab a few things, like a hoodie cos I’m getting _cold here_ , because your damn alpha has no _heating_ – also, pizza. Because Isaac’s pushing for Indian. No Indian. Please. Pizza. Okay? Just, like, text to tell me when you get this, so I know whether to prepare my tastebuds or not. Over and out.”

Stiles stared at his phone for a few seconds, as if Scott would miraculously stop feeling up his girlfriend long enough to actually bother replying. Then, starting to get bored, and brain drifting onto other matters, Stiles started to absently toss the phone between his hands. The murmuring of chatter that had been seeping through the walls to the hallway was barely audible; certainly not enough to pick out words, but it was good like that. He let the sounds wash over him as he fell further into thought.

So when Derek called out his name from mere meters away, Stiles promptly jumped violently, hand jerking, sending his phone flying over his head to land higher up the stairs. “Gah – damn – what?” Stiles said, his head apparently unable to decide to look behind to check on his phone, or forwards to Derek.

“Scott didn’t answer?” Derek asked, frowning. He looked _worried_.

“Nah,” Stiles said, sighing the word out as he leaned back, half lying on the stairs. “But hey, that’s just what he does. I’d be worried if he _did_ pick up, quite honestly.”

Breathing out slowly, lips pursed, as if he was trying to calm himself down, Derek nodded. “I guess. He won’t get your message. If you’re really cold, I’ve got jackets. Borrow one.”

Stiles couldn’t think up a response to that quick enough. He was still gaping as Derek turned and grabbed his favorite, well worn leather jacket (the one Stiles had cried over the other night) from the coat hooks and started pulling it on.

“Hey, where’re you going?” Stiles asked, the words coming out surprisingly level, considering how nervous the idea of Derek leaving the vicinity was.

“Lunch,” Derek replied. He smirked, only slightly, as he turned back to Stiles, still slipping his arms into the sleeves. “There’s this new-”

“Not Indian, _please not Indian-”_

“-Indian take out that Isaac’s begging me to try,” Derek finished, smirk growing ever so slightly at Stiles’ barely exaggerated groan of defeat. “I won’t be long, and remember, the evac drill is for _emergencies_ , not just because you want something else to eat.”

“Indian _is_ an emergency,” Stiles grumbled, sliding down so far that he fell off the bottom stair with a thud. Derek snorted, and, having finally sorted out his jacket, grabbed his car keys from the rickety table they’d put near the door and opened the front door. “I hate you!” Stiles yelled after him.

He saw Derek smile before he pulled the door shut. The fact that Derek had been facing away from him made no difference.

*

No matter how much like his mother it made him feel, Derek found it was impossible to stop himself saying, “Erica, put your phone away,” when he saw Erica texting with one hand, and scooping up curry with a popadom with the other.

Erica’s head shot up, eyes wide with shock, indignation, and teenage stubbornness. “What? But Isaac’s texting too!”

Sighing, Derek rolled his head to the side to see that Isaac was, indeed, texting someone, eyes fixed on the phone resting on his knee, mouth open and fork motionless, hovering in the air with rice laden on it. Any second now, the rice was going to spill all over the floor, Derek could see it coming. “Isaac, put your phone away,” he said, in exactly the same tone as he’d used before.

“What? But-”

“Do as Daddy says, kids,” Stiles said, drowning in one of Derek’s larger black jackets and having to shove a mouthful of popadoms to the side before he could even attempt to open his mouth. After Derek had finally got back, Stiles had immediately dived to grab the entire stack of popadoms, claiming innocently that they were the only thing he could eat. So far, only Erica had managed to steal one back from him. “After all, Daddy’s the one who paid for the food.”

Jackson snorted. “You’re only saying that because-” He choked on whatever he was going to say as Lydia elbowed him, remarkably unsubtly for her. There were various stifled snorts of laughter from the rest of the pack. Derek firmly ignored them, face blank as he scooped up more tikka masala. When he next looked up, Isaac was still texting, and the rice was a clear second closer to falling to the floor.

“Isaac,” he said, trying to make the word more of a warning than a sigh of exasperation, and failing quite obviously.

“I don’t see what the problem is,” Erica started to grumble, “It’s not like it’s formal dinner-”

“But it’s _important!”_ Isaac protested, waving the screen at Derek too fast for him to see, “I need to send this-”

“-we’re not even sitting at a _table_ , we’re on the floor for Christ’s sake-”

“Dad’s gonna starting yelling soon,” Boyd muttered out of the corner of his mouth to Jackson, who snorted.

Lydia was pulling a face at Stiles, eyebrows raised in expectations.

“-I mean, if I’m gonna get splinters from sitting on the floor, I should at _least_ be allowed to keep up with the gossip-”

Stiles was still stuffing his face with popadoms, and looking at Lydia with complete confusion.

Derek wanted to throw himself out a window. Setting his fork down, he rolled his head to Isaac and asked, “Okay, how important?”

With a burst of enthusiasm, Isaac’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth – his entire body freezing the instant he remembered that Derek could tell if he was lying. “Um, I’m trying to get hold of Scott?” he tried.

Not a lie. But also not the right answer. Derek couldn’t stop himself frowning, not so much at Isaac’s comment, but at the implication that Scott still hadn’t replied to anyone. “Why?” he asked.

“Um,” Isaac began, and there was a longer pause as he quite obviously tried to organize an answer that would sound at least slightly sophisticated. In the silence, Stiles chuckled. “I was… giving him important information about a deal we made?”

Lydia snorted suddenly, drawing Derek’s eyes to her. “You mean you were antagonizing him over how he’s losing the bet?”

That sounded more realistic. Derek sighed, and held out his hand. Reluctantly, and shooting daggers at Lydia, Isaac dropped his phone into it, but not before turning it off.

“What bet?” Derek asked curiously as he put the phone on the floor beside his foot, glancing around the circle, and getting more and more annoyed as every single person started to look ever so slightly guilty. Only Stiles looked as confused as he felt.

Isaac didn’t reply, eyes darting momentarily across to Stiles before he continued moaning. “I’ve insulted him almost five times in the past half an hour, and he still hasn’t replied.”

It was a well accepted fact that Scott never replied to his phone, and usually that wasn’t a cause to worry. But, quite obviously, this wasn’t usually, and everyone had stopped arguing, stopped moaning, and were looking from Isaac to Stiles to Derek with various levels of concern.

Derek looked across to Stiles. Though he didn’t seem to be as concerned as the rest of them, there was a quite certainty in his eyes, and a stiffness in the nod he gave Derek that said everything. “Scott’s fine,” Derek said confidently, making sure to meet the gaze of each member of his pack. “You know what he’s like, he never answers his phone. The hunters are probably taking their time talking with Chris – they’re old friends, after all. Besides,” he said, slowly and calmly picking up his fork, and shoveling chicken onto it, “he’s with Allison.”

*

Stiles waited until lunch had been cleared away, until the pack was laughing in the living room and sharing a bar of chocolate, before meeting Derek’s gaze and tilting his head towards the door. He left, knowing that Derek would follow, as he headed through the hall and back into the kitchen. His hands clenched once, shaking ever so slightly before he pulled his phone from his pocket. Behind him, he heard Derek close the door as quietly as he could.

“I’m going to call Allison,” Stiles said, voice as steady as he could make it. “He should have replied by now. He should have called back, texted, something-”

He jumped when he felt Derek’s hand rest on his shoulder, before closing his eyes and sighing out. He liked the weight of it, an almost literal anchor, helping him think calmly. “Okay,” was all Derek said, his thumb lightly brushing over the material of Stiles’ shirt. At some point, Stiles would have to figure out exactly what that _meant_ , but now -

If Allison hadn’t been the very first contact on his phone, he didn’t think he’d have been able to keep his fingers from shaking long enough to find her number. As it was, he managed to call her, turning so Derek was beside him, not behind him, his hand still in place on Stiles’ shoulder.

Allison picked up before the first ring had even finished.

“Oh good, Stiles, I was about to call you – has Scott left yet?”

Shit.

 _Shit_.

He could feel Derek’s fingers tighten on his shoulder, nails slipping ever so slightly into claws, could feel how his own substance was craving to slide back into the safety of the darkness and shadows, but he couldn’t do that. “He’s not there, is he,” he said, a statement, not a question. He knew. He’d long known.

“No – he has left, then? He missed the hunters, they were only here for a minute, but I’ve recorded everything they said. He can collect the recording when he gets here – I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

If he was a braver man, Stiles would have told her early on, would have stopped her talking early on, broken it to her, rather than let her talk. But he couldn’t even say it to himself, let alone to her. “No, no, it’s fine. Could you, uh,” he tried to talk but the words were getting caught in his throat, drying up in his mouth. “If you hear from him, just, let me know?”

The silence on the other end of the phone made it all strike home. Allison’s fear made it twice as real, somehow. “Stiles,” she said eventually, voice so clearly on the edge of breaking, “Stiles, where is he?”

And Stiles tried to reply, managed to open his mouth but he couldn’t answer her. After a few seconds, Derek carefully stepped around, hand reaching to take the phone from his hand. He let go without resistance, hand falling limp to his side.

Derek raised the phone to his ear. “Allison, it’s Derek,” he said, his voice steady, the comfort Stiles needed. “Scott left here about an hour ago, immediately after you called him. None of us have been able to contact him since. If you haven’t heard from him, then I think we can say he’s missing.”

Stiles couldn’t breathe. As he fell back against the work surface, he felt Derek’s eyes follow him, but he couldn’t look at Derek, couldn’t pretend to be okay.

_I knew it would happen. I always knew something like this would happen, as long as I was here…_

He couldn’t hear Allison’s reply, not having the wolf senses that the rest of them did. All he heard was Derek asking how long ago the hunters had left.

_We should have seen this coming. We shouldn’t have let him go alone…_

Derek’s planning wasn’t important. Stiles could have guessed, word for word, what he would do. He didn’t care anymore.

But when Derek stopped talking, mid sentence, Stiles started to pay attention.

He opened his eyes, to see Derek staring silently towards the front of the house, phone still pressed to his ear. Allison’s voice was still vaguely audible, a tinny echo. “What is it?” Stiles asked, frantic because _god_ , he couldn’t deal with anymore of this. “Derek, what is it?”

Derek didn’t reply, but his frown deepened as, from the other room, Isaac called out, “Scott! _Finally!”_

But the relief in Isaac’s voice didn’t match the confusion on Derek’s. “Is it Scott?” Stiles asked, eyes fixed on Derek’s face. He needed to know, and he needed to know _now_ because not knowing physically hurt him. “Derek, _please!”_

“His car,” Derek muttered. “It’s the sound of his engine. But-”

“But?”

“Allison, I’ll have to call you back,” Derek muttered, hanging up without another word and handing the phone back to Stiles. Confused, and working entirely on autopilot, Stiles reached out to take it, only to have Derek grab his hands, holding it in his own. “You need to hide,” Derek said urgently. His eyes were desperate, scanning Stiles’ face as if searching for answers. Or as if he was memorizing it. “You need to find somewhere to hide, and to stay there.”

Stiles shifted his hands, so he was holding Derek’s just as much as Derek was holding his. “It’s not Scott, is it?” he muttered, “Who is it. Derek, what’s-”

Out in the corridor, Isaac was still yelling abuse at Scott for taking so long, for ignoring his phone, as he headed towards the front door to open it.

Both Derek and Stiles looked to the sound of his voice for a second, panicking, before Derek snapped his head back to Stiles and taking his face in his hands. “Promise me you’ll hide. Stiles, promise. _Promise me!”_

“I will,” Stiles said mutely, trying to understand, trying to figure out where Scott was, worrying about Isaac, the pack, Derek, not a thought going to how he would hide. “I promise – Derek, why-”

“Two heartbeats,” Derek muttered, stepping back and his hands falling from where they’d been holding Stiles’ face. “There are two people in that car.” He turned, running after Isaac as the front door opened, almost ripping the kitchen door from its hinges on his way.

Stiles ran after him.

Isaac was standing on the porch, frozen in place. Stiles couldn’t see his face, but from the way the teenager’s shoulders were shaking he’d put money on it being fear that was holding him in place. He couldn’t see anything else around Derek, from where the alpha was standing in the doorway, but he could hear clear enough.

The engine of the car cut out – and Isaac and Derek had been right, it was Scott’s car – and a voice, rough, male, said, sounding almost _amused_ , “Scott? Ah, see, Sammy, we did get the right car! Y’see, we were starting to think we’d got the wrong kid in our room, because, well, he’s such an _idiot_. You know, we tied him up and left for a good fifteen minutes, and when we came back he hadn’t even moved the chair?”

They had Scott. Scott was alive. It was both the worst and best thing to hear.

“How did you get him?” Isaac asked. “How?” He sounded scared, confused, furious – and from the chuckle one of the hunters let out, they could hear all that to.

“Found him at the demon’s house, this morning,” the other hunter said. “As he went inside, we broke into his car. Left this in it.” There was a pause, before he continued, “Know what it is?”

Stiles still couldn’t see, had no idea what the hunter was showing them, all he could do was try to read Derek’s posture.

The way that Derek stiffened at the sight of whatever it was wasn’t reassuring.

“A nice homemade mountain ash scented air freshener,” the first hunter said gleefully. “Paralytic! He’d made it just down to the road from the Argent’s before it finally kicked in. Almost too easy, really.”

Footsteps momentarily distracted Stiles from the hunters. He turned, to see the rest of the pack emerging from the living room, fear and fury written all over their faces. He gestured at them, pushing them back into the living room. But they kept walking, responding to him with nothing more than a glance in his direction. Determined to not let them be seen by the hunters, Stiles reached in, felt the darkness, and forcibly held them all in place.

He didn’t care what they thought about him using demonic powers on them, as long as they were still alive to think it.

But it didn’t stop anything. All it took was one comment from Derek to tell Isaac to go inside, and the two hunters were inviting themselves inside.

“After all,” said the first one, the one who was so clearly enjoying the pain he was causing, “we visited you for a civilized conversation. Well… as civilized as you bitches can be.”

“What the hell makes you think that I’ll let you in my house?” Derek snarled out, hands clenching into fists. Stiles could see him shift as he went from standing passively, to the slight crouch that meant he was ready to fight.

Keeping his voice as quiet as he could, knowing that Derek would hear him, he muttered, “Let them in. We need to know what they’ve got to say. Besides, they’ve got Scott.”

Outside, one of the hunters was making the near exact same point. They had Scott.

Eventually, Derek nodded, stepping aside to leave the doorway open. Isaac entered the house first, immediately heading over to where Erica and Boyd were standing, shoulder to shoulder. None of the pack were more than a few inches from each other. Lydia was beckoning Stiles to join them, but he shook his head, and instead stepped back into the shadows cast by the main staircase. Within seconds, he’d twisted the shadows to envelope him and cover him until he was nothing more than a shadow himself. He’d promised, after all.

From there, he could watch in safety as the two hunters entered the Hale house.

His first thought was how messy they seemed, in comparison to the Argents. They weren’t wearing washed and ironed and shirts and neat coats, but tattered jackets that had been clearly mended over time, old discolored shirts over loose tops, jeans with holes, mud-coated shoes. However, their clothing passed as inconsequential when you realized how confident they were. They were walking into a house filled with werewolves, just the two of them, apparently armed with nothing more than the pistols tucked into the back of their jeans, and they weren’t even breaking a sweat. One of them, the shorter – though he still matched Derek in height, if not slightly taller – even whistled as he looked around the hallway. “Sweet,” he said. “From what I’d heard, this place was a burnt out wreck. I’ve seen the photos. I’m impressed.”

Stiles’ eyes jumped across to Derek, knowing how any mention of the fire affected him. And a comment coming from a hunter? God knows what he’d do. But Derek just gritted his teeth, almost spitting the words out as he said, “Say what you’ve come to say, then go.”

The hunters exchanged glances, before continuing their examination of the house. As the taller’s eyes skimmed over where Stiles was hiding, he made sure not to move. A single movement could give him away. Even so, he didn’t like how long the hunter stared into his shadows.

“Aren’t you gonna introduce us to your little pack?” the shorter asked. “No? Fine. I’m Dean Winchester, this is my brother Sam. And we’re not here to kill you.” Somehow, he still managed to make the last sentence sound like a threat to Stiles.

Apparently, Derek felt the same way. “You’ve got a funny way of showing that,” he said coolly.

Stiles smiled at him with something far too akin to pride than was probably sane.

“We’re not here for you,” Sam said to Derek, as Dean continued to look at the pack. Stiles was getting the scared feeling he was measuring them up, picking out the biggest threat. When Dean’s eyes settled on Boyd, and Boyd raised his eyebrows and tilted his head shortly in one smooth movement, the hunter’s confidence visibly failed for a second, before he was grinning again. Stiles’ proud smile widened, ever so slightly. “We’re here for the demon, currently taking residence in the body of Stiles Stilinski. Look, I don’t want to have to blackmail or threaten you, and I doubt you even really know what’s going on, what’s happened to your friend. If you hand him over, we’ll exorcise the demon, and leave you be.”

Derek didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. It was obvious to all that he didn’t entertain the idea for so much as a second.

Turning his back on the pack to face Derek, just like his brother, Dean sighed and said, “Or, if us asking nicely won’t work, how’s this. Give us the demon, we’ll give you back your little friend. You won’t, we won’t either. And let’s be honest, we all know we’re gonna get our hands on the demon anyway. Simple enough?”

Stiles had seen Derek attack people often enough to see the signs coming. It was in the way his eyes started to burn, in how he loosened his jaw to free his teeth, in how his shoulders shifted back, tensing his arms.

But they had Scott.

“You can’t kill them, Derek,” Stiles said clearly, but with an undeniable weariness. The moment he opened his mouth, the shadows fell away, leaving him as exposed as the rest of them. But there was no helping that anymore. He was barely a second from safety before the Winchesters spun and fixed their eyes on him, alighting due to what they clearly perceived a victory. Stiles met their stares blankly. “You kill them, we never see Scott again. They knew how to catch him, they probably know at least twenty ways to cover his scent, too. And that’s not to mention how the Argents would react. You can’t touch them.” Stiles smiled ironically, not taking his eyes from the men who wanted to eternally damn him. “They’re protected, don’t you see? They’ve got their own, perfect, impenetrable armor.”

There was a silence, for a second, after he spoke. The fear was pouring from the pack, tangible, sending ripples through Stiles’ essence. Derek was watching him with pain in his eyes.

But Sam Winchester, the bastard, contemplated him for that single, solitary second, before saying clearly, “Christo.”

Stiles hadn’t heard the word before but there was no mistaking it. It tore at him, pulling him double and forcing his teeth together so he couldn’t scream, like he so wanted to. Screaming was meant to help with pain, wasn’t it? But there was no helping this, no screaming or swearing or sobbing as the word both forced him still and tore chunks from him.

It was probably nearer to second, the length of time before he could move again, but it felt far longer. God, it felt so much longer.

“You know,” Stiles muttered through gritted teeth, clenching his eyes shut until tears soaked through, and wrapping his arms around his stomach, “You could have just _asked_.” Steeling himself, he straightened back up, eyes blinking open. “But yeah,” he continued, staring at the Winchesters again with pitch black eyes, “I’m that demon kid you’re looking for.”

Every part of him was saying how _stupid_ it would be to look at Derek, how all he’d see would be shock, disgust, fear at best, but he was starting to realize he’d never be able to stop himself. As they always did, his eyes fell on Derek – to see a smile. The same proud smile that had been on Stiles’ face seconds before. He shrugged back, almost an apology. The roll of the eyes Derek returned was so clearly an ‘I knew you’d never stay silent anyway’, that Stiles couldn’t stop himself smiling. He blinked, and his eyes returned to normal once more.

 “This isn’t you coming quietly, by any chance?” Dean Winchester asked, drawing Stiles’ attention back to them. There was a tilt to his lips that could have been called a smile, but a darkness behind it that made Stiles wonder if, perhaps, this hunter had a personal knowledge of what makes a demon. But that was impossible. He was human, and no human would survive hell and come out free.

“No,” Stiles admitted freely, shifting his weight, making himself secure, hands free. In the corner of his eye, he could see Derek doing the exact same thing. “It’s not. Because I’m not _going_ to. Aren’t you getting that? You can threaten and blackmail and point your little guns wherever you want but it’s not going to get you _anything_. There’s two of you. And I’ve got my _pack_ behind me. See? You’re outnumbered.”

“Outnumbered?” Dean echoed, pretending to wince as he looked around, once over his shoulder to Derek, before looking across to his brother again. They did that a lot, Stiles noticed. Checking with the other, watching the other, moving with him. “Well, I’m not sure about _that_. We’re the Winchesters, after all.”

The smug grin he put on after he finished speaking would probably have been considered impressive, to someone to whom the name actually meant something. “Sorry,” Stiles apologized, shrugging, “Am I supposed to know what that means?”

It felt good to laugh at the shock on the brother’s faces. “Um,” the taller, Sam, said, frowning with his mouth open as he looked between Dean and Stiles, “Uh, the Winchester brothers? Really?” He gaped for a few seconds, in silence before exclaiming, “How _long_ have you been out of hell?”

“About seventeen years, give or take,” Stiles said.

He didn’t really know how he’d expected them to react – to be honest, he hadn’t expected _any_ reaction – but he really hadn’t expected the hunters’ faces to tighten with fury. “Son of a-” Dean muttered under his breath.

“Well, that’s just rude,” Stiles muttered. The momentary look of confusion Sam gave him made Stiles wonder if Dean had even been talking about him at all.

There was another glance between the brothers, frowning, shrugging, sighing. Stiles had one insane thought of how they were worse than him and D- _Scott_ , before reality came crashing back down. They were deciding what to do with him.

He knew Derek would say that it wasn’t their decision to make. Personally – and even admitting to it himself was terrifying him – Stiles thought it was.

Eventually, Dean rounded back on Stiles, shoulders square, stare unmoving. “Changes nothing. Our offer still stands. You get sent to hell, the pack gets their pal back. You don’t? We put a bullet through his head.”

Erica gasped. Stiles tried not to look to her, reassured by the sight of Boyd putting an arm around her that he could just make out from the corner of his eye.

“You’re not going to make the deadline midnight, are you?” Stiles asked, voice as steady as he could make it, blinking. The blackness covered his eyes once more, a flicker between the convulsions of fear and rage, and he had to blink a few more times before it faded away again. “Because that would be too painfully cliché, I mean, I’d have to decline on principle.”

“High noon tomorrow better for you?” Dean asked, replying without a second’s pause, and damn, he just _had_ to be snarky, didn’t he…

“Sure,” Stiles bit back, spitting the words out around the furious twist of his lips, “You, me, and the complimentary tumble weed, sounding good?”

Dean winked at him. Stiles grit his teeth, flexed his fingers. “Sounds like a date.”

He could feel the shadows shaking around him, the darkness clawing its way through his chest, ice piercing through his eyes, desperate to show. He could feel the way his pupils throbbed, expanded and shrunk as he started to lose his grip on the emotions that were threatening to destroy him…

“You need to go,” Derek said, voice low. He was staring at the two hunters with an unrestrained fury, eyes quite literally burning with the raw red power of an alpha. “You’ve kidnapped a member of my pack, threatened another. You have nothing left to say to us, so I’d appreciate it if you got the fuck out of my house.”

 Sam Winchester seemed the more intelligent of the two. He just nodded, sending one last look towards the pack, then Stiles, before heading to the door. Dean, however, sighed one last time, keeping his eyes on Stiles as he backed to the door. “Y’know, if _Scott_ doesn’t work,” he said, throwing the words out so casually, “We’ve always got other options.”

He was already at the door. Stiles flung out a hand as he screamed with rage, the whole world darkening as shadows finally broke free and covered his eyes, but Dean was already out, already outside and walking down the porch steps, and the force of Stiles’ assault, though it shook the walls of the house, just made him stumble. And laugh. He _laughed_ , before yelling, “See you soon!” and climbing into Scott’s car.

They was in Scott’s car, they’d stolen Scott’s car, they’d stolen Scott _and_ _was going to steal more… what more can they steal from me…_

Derek took the few steps forwards to reach the front door, not looking outside as he shut it, locked it. The pack was still huddled close, finding that safety in numbers which was sometimes the only defense. Erica was still shaking in Boyd’s arms, Lydia and Jackson were standing with fingers interlocked, eyes both lowered. Held in place between the two couples, Isaac was smiling nervously. “UST between Stiles and the hunter,” he chuckled, the shaking of the laughter covering the shaking of his fear. “Now that’d be a plot twist.”

The reminder just made Stiles crash all the harder. The hunter had flirted with him. He’d been all smiles and friendliness and jokes as he threatened – he’d threatened – “Derek,” Stiles breathed, eyes falling down, rolling sightlessly between the floor and the pack and the door and finally _Derek_ , “Derek – he said – they – they’re going to go after-”

He hadn’t heard Derek move but he didn’t care, because Derek was holding him and frankly that was all he gave a fuck about. Derek holding him firmly, holding him in place, safe, as Stiles buried his face into Derek’s shoulder, his neck, hiding from the world in the safety that Derek offered him.

But it wasn’t enough.

The fear that had been threatening to drown him for the past – and gods, had it only been a few minutes since they’d come – finally crashed over him, and breathing became too hard, ragged shards being dragged into his chest where they’d shatter, the pain making him sob. “Derek, they’re going to – they’re going-”

“I know, it’s okay, I swear it’ll be okay, we’ll stop them-”

“My dad, Derek – they’re going after my dad…”

*

They’d passed Peter’s car on the way there. The other Hale had nodded as they’d passed, but Stiles hadn’t responded. He was curled up on the seat of the Camaro, arms around his knees as Derek broke every speed limit Beacon Hills had, ran every red light, in a stupid attempt to get to Stiles’ home before the Winchesters did.

They weren’t going to. And they didn’t. When they arrived, it was to see the Winchester’s big black behemoth of a car already parked outside the house, just behind his dad’s police cruiser.

Stiles lifted his head from his hands, eyes fixed on the sight, on the front door, trying to sense, to see if he could make out if – “Derek, what’s – can you-”

“It’s okay, they’re talking,” Derek muttered, not looking across to Stiles, but reaching out to place his hand over Stiles’ clenched fist all the same. “They’re just talking. They can’t kill him, Stiles, they can’t do anything to him, he’s human.”

Stiles snorted into the sleeve of his hoodie. “They’re not going to kill him,” he muttered, the words muffled by the blue material, but still coherent. “That’d be far, far too easy. No… they’re going to tell him.”

Make his own dad hate him, become terrified of the only family member left. Dad would be lost to him just as surely as if he was six feet under. Stiles wouldn’t give a shit about being kicked out of the house, if it wouldn’t leave his father utterly alone. But the idea of his dad coming home to an empty house, night after night, with no one to cook for him – he’d go back to eating take outs, with no one there to look after him and he wouldn’t even care…

His eyes flickered across to Derek, seeing instantly that Derek understood it all perfectly. After all, Stiles wasn’t the only one of them to have lost family. The only difference was that Derek had been the one left entirely alone… “We can get in through your window,” Derek said softly, “I’ll help you up. Or, if you’d rather, you can tell me what you want, and I could-”

Stiles shook his head before Derek could get any further. “No, it’s fine, I’ll – I can-”

Derek nodded. He held Stiles’ gaze for a few more minutes, as if he was waiting for Stiles to change his mind, or making sure that Stiles was certain. Eventually, he squeezed Stiles’ hand once more before opening the door. He hadn’t smiled reassuringly, Stiles realized. He didn’t lie like that. That was good.

The door beside Stiles opened, and he climbed out slowly, limbs not quite working as well as they should. Derek helped him, a hand gently pulling his arm and making him walk. He wasn’t sure he’d have been able to move otherwise.

In a way that showed far too much practice, Derek pulled him around the back of his house whilst keeping them both out of sight of the front room windows, until they were in the hedges beneath Stiles’ room. Wordlessly, Derek let go of Stiles, and barely even looked up before jumping and swinging himself onto the window ledge using a drainpipe.

“You’ve done that far too often,” Stiles muttered, the last traces of humor finally showing.

Derek smiled down at him faintly. He smoothly slid the window open, and grabbed the side with one hand whilst proffering the other to Stiles. Stiles took it, and Derek pulled him up and over the ledge into the room, with no apparent effort whatsoever.

“Seriously, work out much?” Stiles asked. Apparently, his sense of humor was clinging on, the rest of him noted detachedly. He watched as Derek slid off the sill and into the room, the alpha smiling at the floor at his comment.

“With our life, I don’t really need to,” Derek pointed out in a subdued voice. He looked around the room, and Stiles couldn’t help a momentary pang of embarrassment about the mess it was currently in. Which was stupid, because Derek had seen it in worse states, at all times of the day, and yeah, there was a familiarity in the way Derek was looking at the room that felt… right. In the same way he’d said ‘our life’ had felt right. “You got everything you need in here?”

“Yeah,” Stiles muttered, turning towards his bed. “I, uh, I kinda prepared.” He hadn’t thought ahead enough to pack the bag earlier – some last vestiges of hope, perhaps – but there was no point in regretting that now. He threw it onto the bed and started to grab things, clothes, underwear, books, his laptop from the desk, trying to avoid the patches of floor he knew creaked.

“You’re not going to need that much,” he vaguely heard Derek mutter. “Few change of clothes. You won’t be gone long.”

Facing away from Derek, Stiles smiled with a dark irony. “Yeah, I will. Most probably. Chances are, I won’t be able to get back here for a while. Might as well take everything of value now…”

He could hear Derek breathing behind him, utterly still. “There’s still hope, you know,” he said, voice barely more than a whisper. “They’re not going to get your dad to believe them without evidence.”

The words didn’t reassure him – he was too far gone for reassurance – but it did make something nag in the corner of his mind. As he pulled shirts and tops from the jumbled mess of clothes by the end of his bed, something…

His heart stopped as he realized what it was.

Hands shaking, eyes wide and darting over everything in sight, he flung clothes to the side, looking, and _god, c’mon, they’ve got to be here somewhere, please…_

“Stiles? Stiles, what is it?”

“Blood,” Stiles muttered, holding up each shirt he came across in a desperate attempt to find the torn and stained material he was relying on now for his safety and sanity, “Can you smell blood? Like, several pints of dried blood, in this room, anywhere-”

“No,” Derek said, and Stiles felt the floorboards bend slightly beneath him as Derek stepped forwards, “No, I can’t smell blood. Just you, your fear…”

And as quickly as that, hope became a thing of the past. He fell to his knees, the thud barely muffled by the pile of discarded clothes he was landing on. Derek’s hands grabbed at his shoulders, pulling him back, Derek trying to see his face, see if he was hurt, check on him, but Stiles didn’t respond, eyes fixed on the stupid mural he’d had painted onto his wall when he was ten. “That’s because they’ve got their evidence,” he said, voice far more stable than he’d expected it to be. So this was what acceptance felt like, was it? The cold hollowness, a paralysis, a destruction of will. “They’ve got my shirt. It’s covered with blood… more than a human could survive. That’s evidence enough… and my dad’s not going to need much…”

“Stiles,” Derek was saying, absently, distracted. He was tugging at Stiles with one hand, pulling him back to his feet and Stiles moved on autopilot, because it was easier to, because he always did what Derek asked. “Stiles, we’ve got to go. Grab your bag. Stiles, your bag!”

But Stiles couldn’t grab it, couldn’t seem to understand why he should. He heard Derek growl, the rustling of material as he grabbed the bag himself, flinging it over his shoulder. He let himself be pushed towards the window, didn’t move as he was picked up and lowered down, let himself fall to the grass, landing on his knees and just waiting, waiting.

Like he had before, Derek had to pick him up, almost carry him back to the car. The bag got thrown into the back seat, Stiles was placed carefully on the passenger seat and he instinctively curled back up, face buried in his knees, arms wrapped tight around as if he could hold himself in place.

He barely registered the click as the driver’s door was pulled shut. “They were coming upstairs,” Derek said, and that Stiles heard, his voice, clear and sharp and soft at once. “They must have heard you fall, I had to get you out of there-”

Derek’s fingers brushed at the base of Stiles’ neck, just above the back of his hoodie. Slowly, Stiles found himself breathing to the rhythm of the circles Derek was brushing onto his skin, but it still hurt.

It still hurt.

“I’m sorry,” Derek muttered, and Stiles could hear it all in his voice, the guilt for a promise broken, the pain at seeing Stiles like this, genuine sadness, and love. “I’m so sorry.”

Stiles raised his head, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his hoodie, the tears that he couldn’t stop, the cold, calm safety of the shadows covering his eyes giving the salt water the faintest clouding of grey. He didn’t have the strength to try and hide it, now.

But even with all that, the black eyes, the tears, the snot starting to drip too, and what must have been the most pathetic expression ever covering Stiles’ face, Derek didn’t look away. He kept looking at Stiles, into his eyes, and his own eyes gleamed red ever so slightly. Not a threat, not a warning. It was a reassurance.

 _This is my strength,_ it said. _And it’s all yours_.

Derek didn’t hesitate, he wasn’t one to do things slowly and carefully. He just reached out, taking Stiles’ face in his hands, pulling him forwards and pressing their lips together.

Pushing his lips against Derek’s desperately, needing the warmth of the touch, the love behind it, Stiles grabbed at the lapels of the leather jacket, fingers clenched as tight as his eyes as he cried. The cold pressure of the shadows in his eyes were pushed back by the warmth of Derek’s skin against his, the warm breath ghosting across his lips, the heat of the press as Stiles let Derek kiss him again, fiercely, in a way that promised he’d never stop.

When Derek finally pulled back, Stiles let his forehead fall against Derek’s, still gulping back sobs. Derek’s thumbs lightly brushed away the tears from his cheeks, not moving, just staying.

Eventually, Stiles lifted his head back, swallowing air, blinking until the darkness was gone, until he could believe he didn’t need to be held by Derek to exist anymore. As he leaned back into his own seat, Derek smiled softly, once, one last finger wiping away a last tear, before he turned away to start up the car.

*

Dean opened the motel door humming cheerily. Behind him, he could almost hear Sam rolling his eyes.

“Ah, stop being such a prude,” Dean chuckled, as the key clicked in the lock. “We’re doing _well_! Doing well is a rare occurrence; let me enjoy it while I still can!”

And yet, Sam felt the need to purse his lips and hum with uncertainty.

That noise _never_ meant anything good. Dean groaned, falling down onto the handle and all but tackling the door as he tried to open it. “No. _No._ Sammy, don’t you dare rain on this parade, I swear to god-”

“ _I’m just thinking_ , it’s got a whole lot less black-and-white-”

“When was this _ever_ black and white? We got the information from _Crowley-”_

“Yeah, but it was still just a basic demon hunt, until we learned he’d been up here for _seventeen years-”_

“Seriously? Newsflash, Sam! Demons li-”

The word died out in his mouth as he finally turned to face the room. In the far corner, next to the fridge, a chair had fallen over. With a werewolf attached to it.

Said werewolf, from his position sideways on the floor, looked up at the two brothers and smiled lopsidedly. “Uh – welcome back?”

Unable to process, Dean just stared at the kid for a few seconds, waiting for his brain to actually figure out what he was seeing. “Oh, for the love of-” he groaned, head rolling back and away, hand flapping in the kid werewolf’s direction. “Dude, seriously? I’m embarrassed _for_ you!”

It looked like the kid was trying to shrug, but the movement just made the chair scrape across the floor a few inches. “I got hungry?”

Dean flapped at him again, turning to Sam, as if to question ‘how does this thing _exist?’_ Knowing exactly what Dean meant, Sam pursed his lips in matching disapproval at the thing that was _supposed_ to be a werewolf.

“Would you mind handing me my phone?” the kid asked, making Dean, against his better judgment, turn back to face him. “I think it’s behind me – it fell out of my pocket.”

Once again, it took a few seconds before what the kid was saying computed. “No, but seriously, how are you still alive?” Dean lamented, pulling his pistol out from the small of his back and chucking it onto his bed. Sam was doing the same.

The kid chuckled. “Good friends.”

Okay, enough. “Scott – it’s Scott, right? You are Scott?” He took the stunned silence and the look of surprise as a confirmation. “Right, Scott, here’s the deal. You’re being held _hostage_ , so we can get the demon we came here for. I’ve had to tell said demon that I will shoot you by 12 tomorrow if he doesn’t come. Now, I don’t want to do that, but I swear to god, if you don’t stop _pissing me off-”_

Scott gaped. “What? How am I pissing you off?”

“By being so _stupid!”_ Dean cried. The look of hurt on the kid’s face sent the slightest pang of guilt through him, and he didn’t look to Sam, but he knew his brother would be feeling the same guilt. He sighed out, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll be back soon.”

“Where are you going?” Sam asked, frowning at him.

“Scope out the local vicinity.”

Sam nodded in understanding. “Finding the nearest bar,” he muttered under his breath, disapproval heavy in his tone.

That was just rude. “No, _actually_ – I’m going to go keep an eye on that second option of ours. Long distance eye, of course. And we need a location for our ‘duel’ tomorrow noon, I’m gonna see if there’s a warehouse anywhere we can use.” Feeling slightly ridiculous, he leant over to pick up the pistol he’d just thrown down. He’d been planning on staying a bit longer.

And, inexplicably, so did Sam. “You think you need to be armed around this kid?” Dean asked, incredulous, shoving a thumb over his shoulder.

Sam snorted. Scott let out an affronted ‘hey!’ “No. I’m leaving too.”

“What?”

“We were down a wolf at the house earlier, Dean, didn’t you notice? Kinda makes you wonder where he was, right?”

Dean had noticed, as it happened. The big bad that they’d been told to watch out for by the Argent had been conspicuously absent. He nodded, shooting one last glance back at Scott. “It’s not like we need to watch this dumbass, anyway.”

“Hey!”

Surprised, Dean turned back to face Scott. That cry hadn’t been of indignation, but a serious call for attention. “Yeah, kiddo?”

“It’s not going to work. What you’re planning.”

Now this should be interesting. “Oh?”

And Scott smiled. “Yeah. You’re right about Stiles – he’d sacrifice himself if you’d kidnapped the neighborhood cat. But you’re forgetting Derek. Derek won’t let you take Stiles, not for anything. You’re not going to touch him.”

“No?” Derek said, reaching back to open the door. “Kid,” he chuckled, turning and narrowing his eyes in the low sunlight, “I think you underestimate us.”

*

“Hey, guys? You still there?”

“ _Yeah. They gone?”_

“No, I’m chatting to you with the hunters perched on the ends of their beds. _Yes_ , idiot, they’re gone!”

“ _Chill McCall, I was just checking-”_

_“Shut up!”_

_“What? It was a valid question – your boyfriend’s the stupid one, asking about his phone-”_

_“Actually, I thought that was_ clever _, a way of removing suspicion-”_

 _“_ If _you Inbetweeners have all finished bickering, and we can get back to matter at hand? …Thank you. Scott, you’re doing well. All this is going to be… great help.”_

“Uh, thanks? What did they mean? What were they talking about?”

_“Oh, apparently they popped around the house, something about threatening the sheriff, I don’t know.”_

_“They said that if using you as a lure didn’t work, they’d have a second option. Stiles and Derek thought they meant Stiles’ dad.”_

_“Did they now…”_

“They’re going after the sheriff?”

_“Apparently, if Derek and Stiles are to be considered reliable…Really, you’re doing well, Scott. That act as a dumb, clueless teenager with no self-preservation instincts? Loving it!”_

“Hey, I just risked my life to help Stiles!”

“ _I’m aware. That wasn’t sarcasm. I’m genuinely impressed. It’s a big act you’ve got going, for a long time... But, I’m going to need you to keep it up for a bit longer.”_

“Keep the phone on?”

“ _Indeed. Uh… Jackson will stay on the line, if you get in real trouble. But for now, silence, I think.”_

_*_

Isaac watched as Peter chucked the phone onto the table, wafting a finger at Jackson to stand guard over it. To the rest of the pack, Peter curled a different finger, beckoning them into another room.

“You’ve got to give it to the hunters,” he was chuckling, “They’re cleverer than we thought. I’m not sure if they _meant_ to be, but still. Well done them!”

“We’ve got to call Derek,” Boyd said, but he wasn’t reaching for his phone, instead looking from Isaac, Erica, Lydia, as if waiting for one of them to act instead.

Isaac nodded. “We need to tell them Scott’s okay.”

“Forget that,” Lydia said, eyes alight. “We know where the hunters are going! If we tell Derek that Dean’s going to be watching the Sheriff-”

“Kids, my dears,” Peter said, looking between them with a confusion put on with his usual dramatic air. “Now why on earth would you want to do all that?”

*

Just as Deaton had said, a spare key had been hidden behind the plant pot on his porch. Derek had found it almost immediately, taking slightly longer to fit the key into the lock and turn it. Stiles had let himself be pulled inside, across the threshold and into a hallway a bit more luxurious than he’d expected for a local vet.

“D’you think he has a Jacuzzi?” Stiles muttered, looking around the expensive looking furniture.

Derek snorted at the comment, pushing the straps of Stiles’ bag back up on his shoulder from where they’d slipped. “I do not know,” he said, amused. Then he suddenly grinned, looking across to Stiles. “Want to find out?”

One second’s pause, and Stiles grinned back, before sprinting across to the stairs, taking them two at a time as he yelled over his shoulder, “Last one to the Jacuzzi has to darn Scott’s socks for the rest of the year!”

He had _no_ chance of winning, he knew this, but it was fun to pretend and be a kid again, kicking open doors just to see what was behind them, finding the office (and almost knocking down a painting from the wall), a library with the most peculiar objects covering the shelves and a target pinned to one wall, Deaton’s far too neat master bedroom – all the time, Derek’s laughter echoing behind him.

When finally, after flinging open one of the last few doors, he smelled the soap and air freshener, saw the tiles, recognized the inherent _bathroom-ness_ , he let out a whoop of triumph and made to jump into the room, only to have arms wrap around his waist and lift him backwards. As he squealed, lips traitorously stuck in a grin, he could feel Derek’s chest shaking beneath his back. His feet were lifted from the ground as Derek tried to swing him around and out of the room, and - was Derek _playing_ with him?

He wasn’t sure any longer if he was squealing or laughing as he tried to grab onto the door frame, nails scraping at the wood as Derek chuckled against the skin on his neck, his warm breath tickling ever so slightly, but still managed to pull him out of the room. He all but dropped Stiles onto the floor of the corridor, and that was a _cackle_ , dammit, and by the time Stiles had scrambled to his feet, Derek was standing in front of the (unfortunately average) size bathtub, hands outstretched with smug victory, lopsided smile on his face, slowly tilting backwards as if to fall back into the tub.

With a war cry (that was, admittedly, bordering on a yodel) Stiles launched himself forwards, jumping onto Derek and wrapping all limbs around him like a monkey.

He realized the possible mistake when Derek lost his balance, tipped back, and went crashing into the bath tub, head whacking against the tiles with a dull, and loud, thud.

Derek was still laughing as he shifted, moving so he was lying more comfortably in the bath, as blood poured from a gash in the back of his head.

“Jesus, Derek,” Stiles said, kind of stuck between horror and hilarity. He tried reaching up, fingers brushing the gash hidden in the mess that was Derek’s hair.

But Derek just kept laughing, and god, Derek sometimes had worse self-preservation instincts than Scott. “I’m fine,” Derek chuckled, letting Stiles feel around the wound, instead lifting Stiles up at the waist and shifting him, until he was flat against Derek’s chest. “Or I will be, soon. I’ve dealt with worse than a bathroom, Stiles.”

“I know,” Stiles muttered, feeling the skin knit together beneath his fingers. “I’m just… scared.”

Moving slowly, fingers brushing lightly against Stiles’ skin before tightening his grip on his wrist, Derek nodded. “I know,” he said, echoing Stiles’ comment. He lifted Stiles’ hand away from his head, holding it between them. “It’s fine. It’ll _be_ fine.” There was a moment’s hesitation, before Derek raised Stiles’ hand to his lips and kissed them lightly. Stiles’ heart started to jackhammer away in his chest, and he knew Derek could hear it, which, yeah, was a little embarrassing, and he would have sworn Derek was smiling behind Stiles’ fingers, but – he’d punch Derek if he stopped because Stiles was getting embarrassed.

“We’ll hide out here until things die down,” Derek kept muttering, between the press of his lips against Stiles’ skin, “They won’t find us here – they don’t know about Deaton – and then I’ll get you out of here, like you wanted-”

“Wan _ted_ ,” Stiles echoed, eyes fixed on Derek’s lips. “I don’t want – no, I _want_ to, I _can’t_ leave now. I don’t have the choice, don’t you see?” he laughed, soft and dark, and Derek looked up at him. Stiles met his gaze, and shrugged, his shoulder ruffling Derek’s shirt as they pushed against it. “I wasn’t going to fight them, until they tried to get me to surrender. Ironic, huh?”

Derek was frozen beneath him. “You want to fight them?”

An idea of how to reply came into Stiles’ mind, and he smiled. He was going to be cheesy. He _never_ got to be cheesy. “Remember what you said?” he asked, and his smiled widened as Derek frowned with confusion. “You said you weren’t going to let me lose all this.” Derek’s face smoothed out with understanding, and Stiles lifted his free hand to run a finger over where the creases had been. “Yeah – well, I’ve decided you’re right. I _don’t_ want to lose this. After all, I’ve only just got it.” He slid his hand down Derek’s face, cupping his hand against Derek’s cheek – it was the first time he’d ever touched anyone like this, ever, and he liked it. Something in the trust it showed, perhaps. Or perhaps just the physical touch, the warmth and the roughness of Derek’s stubble.

Then again, perhaps it was just _Derek_.

Yeah, that sounded most likely.

He realized Derek was watching him, as his face probably went through some ridiculously adoring expressions and boy, was he going to regret this later. “Um.”

And Derek just smiled back at him.

A startled laugh burst through Stiles’ lips, and Derek’s brow creased – but he was still smiling. “What?”

“You look… gentle,” Stiles explained, mouth shaping that last word carefully, because, genuinely, he’d never thought that word would apply to Derek. But he _did_ , he look soft and gentle and almost _cute_ , and if those were dimples Stiles was going to cry.

 _This is mine?_ How _is this mine?_ It hadn’t sunk in yet, and no matter how many times Stiles let his fingers dance across Derek’s skin, he doubted it ever would.

Derek scowled, but it was fake, Stiles could see that. “Tell Scott, and you will die.”

“Mm, I don’t think I will.”

“No?” Derek asked, raising one eyebrow.

Smiling widely, Stiles shook his head. “Nope,” he said, popping the ‘p’.

“Huh, I thought you were clev-”

Deciding on impulse that Derek needed to be shut up and Stiles needed to kiss him, Stiles did just that. It was – yes, really – his first time being the kiss- _er_ , not the kiss- _ee,_ but he thought he did okay. He got Derek’s lips, anyway. And it felt good. Like… _really_ good.

But then Derek was grabbing his hips, pulling Stiles down, and was shaping his lips against Stiles’, and running a hand through Stiles’ hair, and biting Stiles’ bottom lip, and _jesus –_

Stiles’ hands started to move on impulse. He grabbed a handful of Derek’s hair, using it to pull Derek’s head back, angling it so he could try to suck his lip. And, god, the noise Derek made – it had Stiles’ heart stuttering, gasping against Derek’s jawline. “Skin,” he muttered frantically, hands grabbing handfuls of Derek’s shirt, pulling at it, brain not quite up to working out which way was ‘up’. “Hot skin, hot hot, god your fucking body, can I lick it I want to lick it-”

It was strange, feeling someone laugh when you’re lying on top of them, but Stiles didn’t give a shit because Derek was pulling Stiles’ shirt up, tugging on the sleeves, trying to pull it off. Stiles vaguely thought that he’d need to lift his arms to pull the shirt off but as his hands, and attached arms, were too busy pushing Derek’s shirt up and off his abs, and that was far more important.

And Derek chose that moment to press his tongue against Stiles’ lips.

Without a pause, Stiles opened his mouth, pressing his tongue against Derek’s, brushing them against each other, sucking on it, letting his teeth graze the edges, in return Derek let the tip of his tongue brush against the underside of Stiles’, and Stiles had not known there were so many nerves there.

He had to stop. He’d die if he didn’t. He wasn’t _breathing_ , something was wrong with his heart, he was definitely dying –

Oh hot _damn_ this was beautiful.

With Derek’s shirt finally out of the way, Stiles forced himself to lift his head away from Derek long enough to look at the muscles beneath is hands. “Hot _diggity_ ,” Stiles muttered, eyes wide, fingertips tracing the dips of the muscles as they rose and fell fast as Derek panted. Derek was panting. He’s made Derek _pant_. “Damn, boy!”

“You know, you’re not too bad yourself,” Derek said, and Stiles felt a palm press again his stomach, fingers curling and brushing over his skin. He glanced up at Derek, at the dark eyes transfixed by his body. Human dark eyes. Human, dark, and _turned on_ eyes.

This was something from a dream.

“We really shouldn’t be doing this,” Derek muttered, fingers brushing against the bottom edge of Stiles’ shirt, where it was crushed up beneath Stiles’ arms.

“Really?” Stiles muttered. He leant forwards, hands slipping to grab Derek’s side, pressing his chest against Derek’s, their skin slipping together, his lips pressing against Derek’s neck. “What makes you say that?”

“You’re seventeen.” Derek’s fingers started to slip around Stiles’ skin to his back, beneath the material.

“More like two-hundred and seventeen.” Stiles let his teeth brush against the dip above Derek’s collar bone. He hadn’t been joking about the licking thing. He’d been _dreaming_ about the licking thing.

“The… situation…” Derek gasped as Stiles’ tongue licked a hot line up to his jaw, nails digging into Stiles’ shoulder bone.

“All the more reason to enjoy ourselves while we still can.” Stiles slipped a leg between Derek’s. Shit. _Shit_. That was – that was definitely – Derek was _hard_. Holy fuck this was happening. Moaning against the rough skin of Derek’s jaw, Stiles pressed his hips down. The pressure was _glorious_. Better than his right hand. _So_ much better than his right hand. God, he was so pathetic…

“We had our first kiss earlier tonight.” Derek rocked up, and Stiles swears to god he _keened_.

“Well, everyone’s thought we’ve been fucking behind their backs for _months_ ,” Stiles muttered, pressing against Derek’s hip, rubbing his leg against where Derek’s cock was straining against his jeans.

Derek’s _cock_.

Stiles had to stop and breathe for a second, before he forgot the two hundred aspect of his age and came in his pants like the teenager he was trying to convince Derek he wasn’t. “If it helps,” he gasped, eyes barely open as he looked down at Derek below him. His hair was all destroyed from where Stiles had been tugging at it, his skin was flushed, eyes hooded and lips swollen. Stiles just wanted to… “I’ve been mentally fucking you for long enough.”

He’d barely finished speaking before Derek’s eyes fluttered shut, and he bit his lip as he swallowed back a moan. “Not helping,” Derek muttered.

Stiles laughed again, short and breathless. “That’s the plan.” When Derek opened his eyes enough to glare, Stiles shrugged. “Hey, I’m a teenage boy with a hot dude lying _beneath_ him. How did you expect me to react?”

Smirking, Derek reached back up to grab at Stiles’ collar, pulling him back down. “With a lot more bad jokes,” Derek muttered, leaving just enough time to smirk obnoxiously before crashing their lips together again.

It was wet and sloppy and poorly aimed, with teeth knocking together and hot air being breathed across lips and jaws –but Stiles’ attention was elsewhere. It was where Derek’s hand was slipping between their stomachs, reaching down and flicking open the button on Stiles’ jeans. Entire body shaking, Stiles bit down on Derek’s tongue, and Derek growled, his chest vibrating against Stiles’, sending more shivers through him, making his hands curl, nails digging into Derek’s waist.

As Derek’s hand slipped beneath his boxers, Stiles gave up on kissing entirely. It was all he could do to keep breathing, forehead pressed to Derek’s, as his fingers slipped around Stiles’ cock and started to flex, soft to tight, the light pressure making Stiles moan. His muscles tensed and relaxed, nose knocking against Derek’s, mouth open, the heat from their breaths mixing in the few millimeters between their mouths.

His hips jerked at Derek’s first stroke. Derek’s larger hands were so much rougher, so different from anything else he’d experienced, so _new_ , and it was someone else, someone he wanted – and damn, it felt so _good_. He swore, as Derek stroked him again, thumb rubbing over the already wet head, twisting his hand, and Stiles rocked forwards again, biting his lip, swearing and cursing as Derek sped up, faster, harder, and he didn’t even know what he was saying anymore except Derek’s name, muttering Derek’s name, begging Derek’s naming, cursing it –

As he came his sight went, unable to focus, to think, hands digging into Derek’s side hard enough to draw blood. He thought his eye blacked out. His eyes flicked open long enough to see the red glow in Derek’s.

His boxers were sticky, and gross, and he was _damn_ lucky he’d thought to bring underwear. But fuck, this… this was…

He wasn’t as experienced as Derek – or at least, he assumed. Either way, it took him longer to bring Derek off. He tried to watch him as he grasped his cock, wanting to note every movement his face made, every twitch it made, where he bit his lips as he tried not to make a sound, silent as ever. He watched as, the closer Derek got, his eyes would flicker brighter, his teeth would lengthen. He could feel the dig of claws into his skin, drawing blood, and he let them. God, yes.

The first time heard Derek mutter his name, his hand jerked, and Derek gasped his name again. Stiles did it again, that quick slide, tilt upwards, heart thudding every time his name was wrenched from Derek’s mouth. As Derek fell apart, eyes tight and fangs bared, claws deep in Stiles’ back, Stiles felt the shadows darken in his eyes. He liked this. There was a power here… a pleasure… this, he’d have to do more often.

Derek yelled as he came, a cross between a scream and a roar. His head fell back, claws tightening once more, before relaxing. The claws faded, teeth returned to normal, and he opened his eyes just as the red started to fade.

Stiles… didn’t know what to say. What the hell do you say? At a complete loss of what to do, he just stared down, mouth open, still panting, shirt rucked up to beneath his arms with Derek’s _come_ covering his hands, his own come drying in his boxers…

Derek looked back at him, the same astonishment written across his features. Then he lifted his hand, fitting it against the side of Stiles’ face, thumb brushing at the soft skin beneath Stiles’ eye.

Responding on instinct alone, Stiles closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the darkness that marked him for a demon was gone. He just felt…

His lips started to twitch. Within seconds, he had a full-blown grin on his face. “I just lost my virginity,” he said, the words bursting from his mouth, tongue stumbling over a few of them. His mouth felt different, after having Derek’s tongue in it. Bigger. “I just lost my virginity… in a _bathtub._ ”

And just like that, he was laughing. Belly-shaking laughter. It was – he was just so _happy_. This was, all of it, just so _perfect!_ Even when Derek rolled his eyes, grabbed his collar and pulled him down so he was curled up against Derek’s side, where he could feel Derek’s chest shake with silent laughter, it was still perfect.

It could give him hope, this. Having something like this. He wasn’t as alone as he’d thought, never had been. It had just taken until now for that to sink in, for him to realize. He didn’t think he’d ever be alone again.

“This is for real, isn’t it?” he asked, the words probably coming suddenly to Derek, who’d been lying beside Stiles in silence as he thought.

Awkwardly, in the tight space of the tub, Derek turned his head to look down at Stiles. He was smiling as he had before, the soft smile that made him look gentler than Stiles had ever seen him. “Yeah, it’s for real,” he said.

Stiles’ mouth worked for a few seconds, before eventually, he just settled for saying, “Good.”

He let his arm drape across Derek’s chest, head resting on his shoulder, legs bent and hooked against one of Derek’s. He felt Derek shift slightly, and the soft press of lips against his forehead. He smiled, and closed his eyes.

His eyes opened again a few seconds later. “Do you have spare underwear?”

“…What?”

“Well, y’know. You might want to change…”

There was a soft chuckle before Derek replied, “I don’t _tend_ to carry spare underwear with me, Stiles.”

“Oh,” Stiles said, sounding happy. He grinned, snuggling against Derek some more. “Well, you can see if you fit into a pair of mine, if you want.”

Derek’s chest lowered tangibly as he sighed out in exasperation. Stiles just grinned wider.

He stayed silent a few more seconds, before asking, “Are you hungry? Because I’m hungry. I actually think I would kill for a baked potato right-”

“Stiles,” Derek sighed, still exasperated, but there was an undeniable, and slightly more obvious sign of affection than there had been before, when Derek would say Stiles’ name. “Yes. I guess. A bit hungry.”

“Shall we go get something to eat, then?”

Derek’s chest rose and fell slowly under Stiles’ arm as he breathed in and out, slowly, calmly. “In a minute, Stiles,” Derek said, lightly tightening the arm looped around Stiles’ waist, pulling him closer. “In a minute.”

Stiles could do that.

*

“I can’t believe-”

“Still, really?”

“-he doesn’t have _potatoes_. Who doesn’t have _potatoes?_ Potatoes are, like, a food _essential_. Especially baked potatoes! You never know when you’re going to get a craving for a good old baked potato!”

“We never used to keep baked potatoes. We’d get them from the shops if we really wanted them, but apart from that-”

Stiles spun from the burner, scowling, and brandishing a spatula like it was a lethal weapon. Hell, it probably could be, in the right hands. “You,” he said in a low voice, “Are strange.”

Annoying, Derek didn’t even flinch. Perfectly still on the stool he was sat on, he just raised an eyebrow, looking from Stiles to the spatula, and back again.

“What, you’d rather I was brandishing a carving knife?” Stiles asked.

Sucking at the insides of his cheeks, as if he was trying (and yet failing impressively) to keep a straight face, Derek shrugged. “I’d rather you weren’t brandishing anything, and were making sure my grilled cheese sandwich doesn’t burn.”

Unfortunately, he made a fair point. Glaring once more, just to make doubly sure he’d conveyed how furious he was, Stiles huffed before spinning back around to the burner and checking on the sandwiches frying in a pan. Some cheese was starting to melt out of the edges of one, so Stiles jabbed at it with the edge of spatula, poking it back in. “You make me sound like your kept wife,” Stiles muttered rebelliously. “I’m already the pack mom, I don’t need to be the alpha’s kept wife as well!”

“Technically, if you’re the mom, the wife bit’s kind of implied, and you’re brandishing the spatula again, love. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

 _Hurt_ himself? “Hey, don’t patronize me!” Stiles said, turning back around, arm out and spatula on a path to be aimed right at Derek, only to be taken out of his hands almost immediately. When his eyes caught up with the rest of him, Stiles saw Derek standing about a centimeter from him, and he swore, his heart stopped, and he stumbled a step backwards. “ _Jeeesus_ ,” he muttered, now free hand rising to press against his heart. “Bad Derek! Very very bad Derek! Don’t do that again!”

In complete smug silence, Derek reached around Stiles to set the spatula down on the side. Only then, did he look into Stiles’ eyes and say with a completely sincere voice, “I’m sorry.”

Stiles raised one unimpressed eyebrow. “Yeah, that whole sincere thing would work more if you’d stop smiling.”

The smile vanished. Derek’s gaze intensified, and a hand reached up to hook a finger underneath Stiles’ chin, tilting his head up just enough for him to be looking straight at Derek. “I’m sorry,” Derek said again.

Stiles gulped. “Okay, a bit better. Now try-”

He was forced to shut up as Derek set his lips lightly against Stiles’. It was a new type of kiss, one Stiles hadn’t felt before. He liked this, discovering more about Derek. He wanted to still be finding new things out about him, new ways to make him smile, to get a kiss from him, new ways to make his moan (from annoyance or… mm) in twenty year’s time. As Derek’s lips vanished, he let his eyes flutter back open. “Okay, yeah, you, uh, you might have got it right that time,” Stiles admitted, nodding absently.

He didn’t need the gentle pressure of Derek’s fingers this time to make him raise his head to meet Derek’s lips. He opened his mouth willingly as Derek pressed his tongue forwards softly, once again, something entirely new. He let his hands rest on Derek’s shoulders, and Derek’s hands lightly pressed into his hips. But when Derek nudged him back, pressing him against the side, he reacted. Moving before thought, he pushed Derek back and spun him around, pressing him against the wall.

For a second, Derek just gasped, eyes wide, before a slight smirk settled back into place. Stiles grinned at him. “What, did you think I was just going to let you have your way with me against the oven?” he asked, letting some indignation slip into his tone.

He should have seen it coming.

Seconds later, he was being shoved against the opposite wall so hard that the darkness was knocked back into his eyes. “Of course I didn’t expect you to _let_ me,” Derek breathed against his lips, his eyes flicking between Stiles’ eyes and his lips.

If Stiles hadn’t been as stubborn as he was, he wouldn’t have been able to stop him.

As it was, Stiles waited until Derek was a hair’s width from him, before slapping a hand across Derek’s mouth and saying cheerfully, “Sandwiches are ready!”

He laughed at the glare Derek gave him. Or rather, what he could see of it above his hand. He kept laughing as he slipped away from Derek over to the pan, and flicked the golden-brown grilled sandwiches onto the two plates.

Of course, Derek was standing right beside him, ready to take the plate. He kissed Stiles on the cheek as a thank you as he did so.

Stiles didn’t blush. Demons don’t blush. He flushed, is all, at the heat from the burner.

“So, what’s the plan?” he asked, as he slid onto the stool beside Derek’s, wriggling back into it and setting the plate on the small table.

Derek shrugged, and frowned around the mouthful of food he was chewing. He waited before he’d swallowed before saying, “I dunno yet. Probably call up Peter, see if he and the pack have made any headway.”

“I still don’t think-”

“He’s family, Stiles,” Derek said, voice low. And damn, if that was the whole reason why Stiles thought this was too good to be true. But he kept his mouth shut, and just nodded.

“You planning on sleeping at all tonight?” Stiles asked, tilting his head towards the darkening world outside the window, and, unlike Derek, not bothering to wait until he’d swallowed before talking. At the ever so slightly guilty look Derek was giving him, Stiles rolled his eyes. “I know for a fact you got barely any sleep last night, watching me. If you don’t get any tonight either, you’re going to _crash_ tomorrow. I can’t have you crashing on me! I need you, and your wolfy prowess to sort this whole thing out!”

Derek smiled, and said, “I’ll think about it.”

Stiles snorted right back at him, and, after a moment’s pause, “How about if you slept next to me?”

He flicked his eyes across to Derek, to see his werewolf smiling at him with that gentle look, once more. He liked that look. It was… a good look. “Yeah, that I think I could do.”

They both ate their way through the next half of their sandiwiches in comfortable silence, arms pressed together, just for the touch. The first noise for a while came with the beeping of Derek’s cell. He wriggled as he pulled it out of his pants, taking another bite of the sandwich as he read it. “It’s Peter,” he said eventually, licking his fingers clean of oil before typing a reply.

“Oh?” Stiles tried not to sound scared, but it was always tricky. And he had a feeling Derek would be able to tell anyway.

“I asked him to text if he had any ideas, not just if something bad happened,” Derek said, that simple statement of fact the best reassurance Stiles could get. “I’ve got to go meet the pack, let them know-”

“That you rocked my world?”

“That you’re planning on staying,” Derek finished, with the slightest tilt to his lips. He shoved the last mouthful of toastie into his mouth, chewing it and swallowing it in the few seconds he jumped down from the stool. “I’ll be fine – they’re not after me – and I’ll see you later,” he promised, leaning forwards to kiss Stiles on the lips quickly.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

“And I’ll call you the instant we know anything,” Derek added. “And thanks for the sandwich.”

“Anytime!” Stiles said cheerfully. He waited until Derek had turned to walk out of the room, before leaning forwards and quickly pinging the elastic of the boxers Derek had borrowed.

He whistled innocently when Derek spun around to glare. He winked, and Derek cracked. “I won’t be long,” Derek promised again, hovering. Eventually, he just reached out and took Stiles’ hand, squeezing it once before he finally turned and walked from the room.

Stiles watched the door until he heard the slam of the front door. Then, moving slowly and deliberately, he pulled his phone from his pocket and set it where it was clearly visible on the table. He then picked his sandwich back up, and continued eating.

*

Peter was tempted to kick the door down, but felt he should be slightly respectful, so used the key he knew from back in the day would be behind the plant pot instead.

The instant the door was shut behind him, he heard footsteps running. _Where’s the fire_? his brain suggested, and he smiled at the wry humor.

He waited before the person entered the corridor before talking, instead opting for shaking himself warm quickly. The temperature outside had dropped quickly since the sun had gone down, and pretty though his jacket was, it didn’t _quite_ work well as an insulator.

“Ah, there you are,” he said cheerfully as Stiles stepped into sight. “Where’s my angsting nephew? Is he hiding in the closet again?”

From a prime comment like that, he’d have expected a laugh, especially from Stiles. It had always used to get one.

He hadn’t expected the boy’s face to turn as pale as it did, but it still didn’t surprise him. He knew instantly what it meant. In some ways, he’d been waiting for it.

“This means they’ve done it, doesn’t it?” he asked, looking at Stiles. He saw a terror and heartbreak in the kid’s eyes, and a new hardness that matched something he felt. “They’ve managed to get Derek.”

*

It hadn’t been Sheriff Stilinski’s choice to leave the office. Eventually, Paul had kicked him out. He seemed to think Stilinski needed sleep.

 _Need, perhaps_ , Stilinski agreed, as he stared blankly at the tarmac he’d dropped his keys on. He was never going to see them in this darkness, but he couldn’t motivate himself to pull out his flashlight. _Want? Definitely not. God, please don’t make me go home…_

“Mr Stilinski? Sheriff? Sir?”

 _Huh. Perhaps I might have to start believing, again…_ He turned around, peering through the night to try and make out who’d called him. It was a group of kids, about four of them, two of them he recognized from Beacon Hills’ lacrosse team. He’d seen them, when he’d…

He rubbed his face, covering his eyes. “What do you want, kids?” he asked, sighing the words out as he lowered his hands, forcing himself to look at the faces. It was only polite, after all. “It’s been a long day.”

One of them… he knew… _Isaac_ , that was it. Isaac looked between the others, before saying, clearly nervous, “I know, sir. But, we’ve got something we really need to tell you. And, I, uh, I think you’re going to want to listen…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also - Pink's new album. GO. LISTEN. If nothing else, 'True Love' just NEEDS to be put on your Sterek playlist, or some such. SERIOUSLY. 
> 
> And 'Slut Like You' is hilarious when you picture Stiles singing it.
> 
> Edit: Some beautiful people in the work have created [more](http://ucanhavemysoup.tumblr.com/tagged/timkc) [perfect](http://teatham.deviantart.com/art/A-scene-from-This-is-My-Kingdom-Come-326423872) art. That I forgot momentarily makes me horrified at myself.
> 
> OKAY ONE LAST NOTES EDIT   
> The plan was, originally, for it to be a three-parter. Now, I am certain it will have four chapters, and several little epilogue bits, or prequels, that'll be small and turn this fic into part of a series! 
> 
> So, the next chapter will be the last...


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. This is the end.

There’s something that happens to the world when the sun sets. It’s tangible – a confusion and doubt that settles into your head and refuses to leave, a fear that twists the shadows you see, that puts a slenderman by every tree, a beast in every corner, a serial killer in every creak of floorboards...

It’s as if the sun provides safety. Like the heat and warmth and golden light provides a shelter, and shield against the monsters beneath the bed. It makes the world accessible, in a way the sharper, metallic light of the moon never can.

Simply? The sun sets, the world goes dark, and everything you’ve ever been scared of comes out to play whilst every human hides beneath their duvets and blankets and mugs of coffee.

Stiles... _vaguely_ remembered the feeling. He remembered blowing out the candles, watching a maid put out the fire in the living room, the sharp jolt that goes through the body when the last speck of light is extinguished. But he hadn’t felt scared of darkness for a long, long time. He hadn’t had cause to. His mother died during the day. Hell glows, constantly alight. He was far more scared of fire than he was of darkness.

He’d gotten used to the feeling of his skin stretching as the shadows take over the world, his strength growing in the tight, compact human body. He’d long taken comfort in that, in the knowledge that, sometimes, he’s not entirely useless. In those few minutes where the shadows start to grow, he can sit back and relax. Yeah, sunset’s been his favourite time of day for a long time.

Not today. Or rather, not tonight.

Because he wasn’t back. He wasn’t _back_. And when you’re living the fucking life that Stiles seems to be leading, there doesn’t seem to be much difference between being paranoid and being realistic.

He’d called him, or tried to. And if Derek ever gets to his phone he’s probably going to think Stiles is _really_ clingy, but Stiles can’t seem to find himself caring because he’d just find himself calling Derek, again and again, and for fuck’s sake _why isn’t he answering..._

Stiles had taken his time finishing the sandwich, relishing it, so much so that by the time he had about three bites left the thing was stone cold. It was something to do, an activity. He’d finished it, licked his fingers clean and picked up his phone.

The voicemail he’d left had been pointless and aimless and utterly random, but hey. Derek loved – liked? Stiles shook his head – too deep a question for right then – Derek liked him for who he was, so he’d better get used to aimless voicemails.

Then, he’d started to play snake. The five hours searching it’d taken him to find a download of the game that’d work on android had _so_ been worth it. Playing that took up another hour and half.

He spent another twenty minutes drowning in doubt, paranoia and foreboding, before kicking himself up the backside (metaphorically – he’s not that flexible) and pushing himself off the chair, and out of the room. Movement. That’s what he needed. A seriously conducted exploration of the Deaton residence.

_I wonder if this house is big enough to get lost in..._

And if his feet somehow lead him to the bathroom, no one’s going to judge him, because no one was ever going to know.

No, seriously, he didn’t mean to go there. He was _planning_ on going to the small library Deaton seems to have going on, but... he has to pass the bathroom to get there, and he just... finds himself leaning against the doorframe. It’s almost as if a part of him is checking that room actually exists, because he’s so used to things like this turning out to be just dreams he’d had. Awesome birthday presents, kissing Lydia at the dance, Scott actually bothering to come ’round and play COD anymore, and, yeah, Mom having woken up, that day.

Not this time. The bath’s there. And in a room just down the corridor, with the slightly dusty shelves and stone-cold king bed, there’s two pairs of discarded underwear. On the bed is the bag Derek carried up for him. And somewhere, by the Hale house most likely, is the car Derek kissed him in, finally.

Stiles had always liked that car.

But... as a point of pride... next time, his car. His baby had been waiting long enough, she deserved to see some action.

Next time?

_Next time_.

Stiles’ toes curled, mismatched socks squeaking against the wood floor, and he shook with excited adrenaline, just for a second, biting his lips as a painful grin threatened to tear his face in half. For fuck’s sake, he was a teenage _boy_ , not a prepubescent girl! For that matter, he wasn’t even a teenager at _all_ , technically! And yet – and _yet..._

When had this even started? What moment, exactly, had Derek gone from being the Big Bad Wolf that was out to ruin his entire life, to the one thing that _made_ his life? Because that’s a pretty big jump to make. Christ, he couldn’t even pick out when he’d started to _trust_ Derek, let alone _crush_ on him. And perhaps someone more philosophical and romantic would say something deep and meaningful about the times they’d saved each other’s lives, about fighting against a bigger threat and realizing each other along the way...

But Stiles wasn’t romantic, or deep, or philosophical. The most romantic he got was in the monologues he spurted when Dad bought him curly fries after patrol. And he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about that morning where he’d hijacked the Hale house kitchen to bake cookies.

Not the turning point, perhaps. But definitely the culmination, dancing around with a whisk, Derek patiently, contently watching from the stool, the half-smile when Derek had eaten the cookie in three bites and declared it ‘not bad’. The final straw, perhaps. Trigger event.

A smile suddenly stretching across his face, Stiles let his head fall against the doorframe, eyes falling shut. Did it matter, anyway? Somewhere in the whacked-out list of poorly timed catastrophes that was his life, this had happened. Stiles guessed he could only be grateful he hadn’t been whacking his forehead against a wall about it for near a decade. He’d learnt that had never worked.

He smiled again, eye blinking open, eyes fixing on the bathtub. Yeah, being proactive was a lot more efficient.

Something red caught his eye. Aimlessly, he pushed himself off the doorframe and started to amble across to the tub.

The kissing had been _good_. The handjob had been unexpected, and... he’d need a bit longer to come up with words to describe that. It was something you do when bubbling to the brim on alcohol or drugs or adrenaline or that all-too-familiar I-could-be-dead-in-the-morning feeling, too often regretted – but dammit, Stiles wasn’t going to die a virgin. Not after 200 plus years, that’d just be _embarrassing_.

He didn’t count what’d happened in Hell as losing his virginity. Nothing about Hell would ever count. Because he’d got out, he’d lived it, learnt from it, and left it, leaving Hell as nothing more than a bad memory. As far as he was concerned, Hell was nothing more than superstitions in a textbook.

And by _damn_ was it going to stay that way.

He leaned over the bathtub, swiping a finger at the patch of rusted red that had caught his attention. Blood, he could tell the instant he touched it. He’d forgotten about Derek’s head – not that it’d be affecting him much. That guy was made of _stone_ , a past almost as burnt out as Stiles’ own. He was tough.

Eyes drawn, the very edges of his brain nagging him, his eyes flickered over to the window. The sky outside wasn’t quite the same rusted red as the blood on Stiles’ fingertips, but it was close, a shade too purple, the dark blue of the night sky already pushing through.

Derek would survive anything.

Pushing himself back upright, Stiles rubbed his hand clean on the sides of his jeans, and left the bathroom without another look at the tub or out of the window. The sight had started to hurt.

He managed to make it to the library that time, grabbing a book at random – whatever it was, he’d find something interesting about it – and collapsed into one of the two armchairs, back to the window. He flicked the hard cover open (one of those worn brown ones, with the mottled marbled lining) and skimmed the first few pages until the heavy writing began.

Not non-fiction, as it turns out, but Dickens. Bleak House. Stiles had tried one or two of Dickens’ books before – who _hadn’t_ seen or read Christmas Carol, and the Muppet version will always be a legitimate adaptation – and he’d never got more than a few chapters in, the nagging familiarity to the Victorian world the characters were in getting annoying, the descriptions of the debtor’s prisons pushing all the wrong buttons. But he could do with a different kind of annoying, right now, a different kind of bad feeling that the one that was slowly creeping into him as the sun sunk further down.

The distraction didn’t work.

No matter how he tried to bury himself in the book, taking dialogue, trying to saying it in an English accent, trying stupid voices for the evil characters, humming his own theme music to create tension – everything his Dad had always yelled at him for when he read – still, all he could feel was the way his cell phone was wedged in his pocket, against his thigh, utterly still and silent.

And he usually couldn’t tell when the light levels lowered, his eyes able to adjust to darkness so quickly – but he could today. He could feel it when the light levels in the room went down, a shade at a time, each time making his fingers shake that bit more as they turned the pages.

He couldn’t even remember the main character’s name.

When the door finally opened, long after all trace of sunlight had left the sky, Stiles couldn’t even smile. It couldn’t be – there was no _good_ reason why Derek would be –

It didn’t stop him throwing the book to the side, and running down the stairs anyway.

“Ah, there you are,” Peter said, turning his head to smile up at Stiles. “Where’s my angsting nephew? Is he hiding in the closet again?”

_‘It’s Peter... I’ve got to go meet the pack... I’ll call you the instant we know anything... I won’t be long...’_

Derek had never even got to the pack. Peter clearly knew nothing about Derek’s location, about how Derek had left over five hours ago, that Derek was _missing_...

_I was going to kiss him in my car. I was going to bake him peanut butter cookies. I was going to laugh with him over how my dad would shoot him if he found out..._

Stiles wasn’t surprised that Peter managed to read it all in his face so clearly. After all, Stiles felt like fainting. He was surprised he was still upright.

“This means they’ve done it, doesn’t it?” he vaguely heard Peter say. “They’ve managed to get Derek.”

They. The hunters. The ones that wanted to kill Stiles, but instead had gone after Scott, his Dad, _Derek_. Pathetic, ingenious, _bastards._ And, if what they’d said earlier was true, the two werewolves would be dead by midday tomorrow.

Two bullets, and two souls sent to St Peter.

_They will_ not _take this away from me._

Considering how Stiles’ entire brain was exploding, screaming, crying, roaring, he thinks he was allowed that minute before Peter’s tone finally registered, and it finally clicked. “You’re not surprised,” Stiles said, his voice sounding cold, curious. Because that’s how he felt. He could feel cool fury starting to seep through his limbs, to his fingers, sliding over his eyes... “You knew they were going to go after Derek.”

Face as blank and innocent as ever, Peter shrugged. “Well, he was the obvious choice. He’s the head of the pack, take him and the werewolves all cave, removing you of any defense you had. Not to mention how painfully obvious it is that you’d do anything to protect him.”

Stiles had felt angry before. Wanted to punch teachers, Jackson, etc. He’d yelled fury to high Heaven when his mother died.

But he’d never felt anything like the cold intensity he felt right then.

He couldn’t have told you how he moved from halfway down the stairs to standing in front of the beta, one hand wrapped around his neck, slamming his back up against the door he’d just shut. As Peter tried to laugh, or gasp, Stiles didn’t care much which, Stiles let his nails dig into his skin enough to make the werewolf bleed. “Go ahead, werewolf,” Stiles hissed. “You want to try and struggle?”

He laughed as Peter tried to shift, nails tuning to claws, eyes glowing and teeth falling to fangs, a low snarl ripping itself from the man’s throat.

And Stiles just kept laughing, as the young beast tried to tear his way free of Stiles’ grip. He laughed and waited until the creature whimpered in pain from the nails gouging out his flesh. “You can try, kiddo,” Stiles chuckled, head falling to the side, and the glorious blackness covering his eyes, with a depth to them he’d never felt before. The darkness wasn’t a cover to his eyes this – just a glimpse of what he felt inside. “But I was destroying souls before you were born, and no doubt I’ll still be fighting long after you’ve gone. You call me the Brimstone Child. Did you realize how ironic that was? That I’m old enough to be your grandfather’s grandfather, that I have a darkness inside me that’d make the beast in you _weep_ in fear, and yet... you call me _child.”_

Peter gargled. There was blood on his lips. Stiles’ fingernails had pierced through to his larynx.

“You know,” Stiles continued, leaning forwards, his words no more than a breath, “I always knew you’d be the one to destroy all this. Not directly, you’d never like to be so _messy_ , but some of the blame would _always_ be on your shoulders. You know Derek had started to trust you?” Stiles hissed, teeth biting out the words so close to the werewolf’s skin, a new fury rising, “You’d ply him with phrases about being the only family he had left, and you’d worm your way in and carve a place for yourself in his heart, but just because someone’s family doesn’t mean you can trust them. I know, because I’m the one who’s been betraying his father since I opened my _eyes_.”

It was a new sight, seeing Peter trapped, and bleeding. Seeing him scared.

Stiles liked it.

He watched as Peter flinched in Stiles’ hold, as he avoided Stiles’ eyes, his teeth no longer bared but grinding together in what Stiles recognized as submission. And Stiles pushed out his breath with a low growl, not a growl of a creature, but of something born in hell, beneath a demon’s blade. “But it’s not just that you didn’t say anything, no, there’s more. You sent the text, didn’t you? You knew they were after him and you pulled him out into the open and you _let him_ get taken.”

Stiles could feel the blood beneath his fingers bubble, as Peter tried to get the breath in that would let him answer.

“Now, there’s no need for that,” Stiles crooned, lips twitching. “There’s no call for you to drown on your own blood. Just nod, there’s a good bitch.”

The flesh around Stiles’ fingers tore that little bit more as Peter forced his head up and down.

Around Stiles, the air was shaking. He could feel it. It felt like his very body was swelling with the shadows as they pulsed.

He could crush the werewolf in his grip, if he wanted to.

Stiles breathed out.

Slowly, one at a time, carefully, he pulled his fingers from Peter’s neck. He raised his hand, letting the blood slide over his palm, down his wrist, sinking into his skin. This was all the blood he could have, for now. He stayed where he was, ink black eyes fixed on Peter, head slightly tilted as he contemplated the creature, what’d he’d realized, as his blood made crosses on his skin.

The way Peter’s skin knotted itself back together so perfectly sent sparks of fury shaking through Stiles once more. “Fuck,” Peter swore eventually, a hand rubbing over his bloody neck, voice raw. “I thought you were supposed to be a good guy.”

“You’re alive,” Stiles said blandly. He felt the blood showed his fury enough. “Count that my good deed for the day.”

*

There was someone slapping his face.

Pure instinct, Derek snarled, mouth opening wide and wolf teeth biting down hard on his attacker’s hand.

His teeth snapped closed on air.

“Yeah, no, Fido. I like my humanity the way it is, thanks.” The hand patted his cheek again, patronizing, and Derek heard the hunter’s footsteps as he walked away.

“He’s alive?”

“Yeah, he’s alive. Told you to stop worrying.”

Worrying? As if they cared.

The more awake he became, the more he started to realize where he was. Hands tied behind his back, sat on a stone floor. Warehouse, or somewhere equally as big, from how the voices had echoed. Cold. But the warm press of another body, leaning against his back.

He opened his eyes, to have everything confirmed. He could see the brothers at a desk on the far side of the empty warehouse, talking, heads bent. They weren’t paying any attention to him.

Eyes fixed on them, just in case, Derek tilted his head back, nudging it against the head of the boy behind him. “Scott?”

“Derek? Derek! You’re awake?”

“No,” Derek said, deadpan. “The ropes-”

“Wolfsbane, or something. I dunno, but I can’t get out of them. Starting to hurt like a bitch, too.”

It was true, they’d begun itching, but Derek hadn’t thought anything of it. Sighing, not letting himself groan audibly, Derek let his head fall momentarily against his chest. “They’re too clever for their own good,” he muttered.

“How’d they get you?”

“Car. Same as you,” Derek confessed. God, he’d been so _stupid_ – so happy, so _thoughtless_ , it wasn’t until his fingers had become rigid on the wheel that he even thought to _look_ at the air freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror. “I’m sorry, Scott.”

“Nah, no fear.”

Okay, _what_. “No _fear?_ Scott, do you _understand-_ ”

“The others know where we are. They’ll be here soon.” Scott must have heard Derek’s gasp of shock, because he continued, sounding just that bit proud, “Everyone else thinks I’m dumb. Thought it might just work on those guys, too. They didn’t even bother checking my pockets to see if my phone was on. Just ’cause I don’t get good grades doesn’t mean I’m _stupid_.”

Derek let his head fall down again, this time to hide a smile. Which was stupid, he realized, as there was no one around to see it... but old habits die hard. “No, I know. Well done.” As much as he tried to sound impassive, he couldn’t stop himself sounding that bit proud, too. “Any idea how long we’ll have to sit here for?”

“Uh... no. Sorry. They can hear us, we can’t hear them. But this is good, right? Pack to the rescue? With the entire pack coming, Stiles probably won’t have to come at all!”

At that, Derek’s lips twitched again. “Yes, he will,” he sighed, momentarily letting himself be happy, picturing Stiles dancing around Derek’s kitchen, flipping sandwiches on a grill, _pinging the elastic of his underwear_ , smirking behind a mug of chocolate... god, that last one was from months ago. “Stiles will come. He’ll be here to save us.”

He felt Scott sigh out, leaning back against Derek limply. “Yeah. Yeah, ‘course he will. He does that...”

Smiling, eyes falling shut, Derek let himself do the same, trying to get as comfortable as he could on the concrete ground.

Some part of him suggested telling Scott he’d finally made a move on his best friend. He’d have to find out at some point. _Hey, know that spastic kid we have in common, that’s been your best friend since kindergarten and we recently learned was a demon? Yeah, I just made out with him against a grill..._ he laughed shortly, quietly. Because it was always best to say stuff like that mid-kidnap.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Derek muttered, grin barely suppressed. He shook his head. “I... never mind.” After all, Scott was Stiles’ best friend. Stiles would probably want to tell him.

There was a silence, calm, as the two of them just breathed. Derek’s eyes flickered to the hunters, and saw them look across to him a few times. He tried to look threatening. He’d had practice.

“Hey, Derek?”

“Mm.”

“Are you...” Scott trailed off, breathing deeply. “I mean. Are you. Aren’t you scared, of what they could do?”

Of the hunters? Of the men who’d threatened his pack, the boy he loved? Of two men who could capture two of the strongest werewolves of the pack without breaking a sweat? Of the man who’d just shaken him awake to make sure he was alive? “I’m not scared of them,” Derek found himself muttering before he’d even realized it himself. “I guess I’m scared of what could happen.”

“Happen?”

“ _Think_ , Scott. They’re not going to go down without a fight,” Derek muttered, seeing the guns and feeling the rope start to burn against his skin. “But neither’s Stiles.” He’d felt it, that lunchtime, when Stiles had pushed him away, pinned him against a wall. He wasn’t a kid. Never had been, not really. And Derek had talked him into fighting, talked him into putting himself on the front line, and Stiles wasn’t going to back down, not now Derek had been taken. After all, if it was the other way around, Derek wouldn’t stop moving until he’d torn the hunters apart.

He could feel the moment Scott understood, from the way the teenager’s body froze. He heard Scott let out a shaky breath, before he said, “There’s going to be collateral damage.”

*

Peter was on a chair, in the corner of the living room, lying across it sideways with his legs draped over one armrest, back leaning against the other. At some point, he’d got an apple, and was taking every opportunity to bite into it loudly.

Some point soon, Stiles was going to shove it down his throat.

He’d already tried to, once, but after Deaton had arrived it became hard to get his hands around Peter’s throat. The first thing the vet had done, coming home to find Peter bleeding out on his hallway floor and Stiles letting the werewolf’s blood trace crosses onto his arms, was to stand between the two of them, eyes fixed on Stiles, and to make them all count to ten.

Part of Stiles had wanted to tell Deaton to stick his ten where the sun doesn’t shine. Another part had wanted to carve that same message onto the human’s skin.

His foot had taken a step forwards, fingers uncurling, before he realized how badly he really did need to do as Deaton said.

It had taken a while, after that, for Stiles to calm down, especially when everything Peter said seemed purposefully designed to provoke him, but somehow he’d managed it. He’d waited, semi-patiently, as the vet tended to the animal on the floor, let them move to the oversized living room where he’d promptly gone and stood by the huge bay windows, and hadn’t moved from since.

Occasionally, he’d stare up, at the sky. Not really looking for anything. The sky was the sky. Heaven was somewhere else. Or the flowers, he’d looked at the flowers for a while. But now, his gaze was riveted on Deaton’s motorcycle. Black, sleek, each part perfectly fitted and the seat worn from wear. Not quite homely enough to be something he’d buy. There was a reason he had a tattered old piece of crap for a car. There’s a humanity to stuff that’s worn and torn.

“So you’re saying, you don’t know what to do?”

“I _did_ know what to do. I had a diabolical plan with coffee breaks and everything. But our little friends have _moved_ , they’re no longer at the motel, so I don’t know what to do any more.”

“And you expect us to believe you didn’t predict them moving?”

“What does it matter? I’m telling you, I don’t have a plan. So we’ve got to come up with a whole new method of attack if we don’t want everyone’s favorite lovesick teenager and the not-so-big bad wolf back from the nasty, nasty men, who, in case you’ve forgotten, are planning on _killing them_.”

“Of course I haven’t forgotten. I just thought you might have decided to be helpful. _Are_ you going to be helpful?”

_Crunch_.

Peter bit into his apple the same time Stiles’ hand finally broke the wood of the window frame he’d been holding. “Does it _matter?_ ” Stiles asked, and, even to himself... he sounded _weary_. “God, why are you two even fighting over this?” he continued, turning his head slightly to look at them over his shoulder. His hand stayed where it was, fingers embedded in the wood. “It’s not like I want his help anyway!”

Peter had a raised an eyebrow at him, chewing his apple carelessly, mouth open. And Deaton was moving the only way he’d moved around Stiles since the demon thing had exploded out of the bag; with huge trepidation. At least someone knew how to act around a demon. “Stiles,” he said carefully, hands raised in defense. “I know he’s hard to trust, but, you can’t deny he’s a good tactician. And that’s something we sorely need. We’re not going to get Scott and Derek out without a completely foolproof plan, and that means we _need_ Peter. Even if to only be the fool we check it against.” Deaton shot a glance to Peter, who stuck his tongue out, laden with semi-eaten apple.

“No, we _don’t_ ,” Stiles yelled, making Deaton and Peter snap their heads back to him. The wood splintered as he ripped his hand from it, spinning to face them with hands clenched. “Are both of you really this _stupid?_ ” he asked, voice falling, the desperation he was trying hard not to feel sinking in. “I don’t need a plan, and I _certainly_ don’t need Peter. Because if they still want me to meet with them to give myself up they’re gonna have to _call_ me, and _tell_ me where to go! You’re both such _idiots..._ ”

Before Peter could intersect with what Stiles was sure would be a _very_ witty comeback, and would make Stiles really regret not killing him, Deaton said, in that same, infuriating, wary manner, “Yes, but _after_ we know where they are, we’re still going to need a plan-”

“ _NO WE’RE NOT!”_

It felt good, seeing Deaton shocked. That man wasn’t surprised enough.

“There is no _we!_ There is no _plan!”_ Stiles said through gritted teeth, trying so hard to keep a grip on his semblance of humanity. He’d survived years in school, he wasn’t going to give in and become a serial killer now. “There’s just me, just doing as they say! Do you really think I’m going to risk anyone else? That’s what Derek was, _that’s_ why they took him – a huge ‘watch us fuck you up’ to stop me doing exactly what both of you are trying to get me to do! So no, I _don’t_ need you, I _don’t_ need a plan, I’m just going to-”

“Give up?” Peter supplied, hands outspread, as if offering up the option.

“Stiles, you don’t – the pack can look after itself –”

What would it take for these two to _understand_? “No, they can’t, of _course_ they can’t!” Stiles yelled. “Scott – his heart’s in the right place, sure, but that just makes it an easier target! He’ll throw himself into fire without a thought, because he _doesn’t_ think, he’s a fool-”

“If you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree...”

Stiles decided the blood on his skin wasn’t fresh enough. Unaffected by Deaton and Stiles’ glares, Peter shrugged. “Something Einstein said,” he said calmly, biting into his apple again.

Reaching out a hand, Stiles pressed forwards lightly against the air. Peter’s eyes widened, and he gagged as the apple pressed against his teeth, pushing them back, out of their places.

“But Derek,” Deaton said quickly, turning back to Stiles, eye just as wide, placing himself between Stiles and Peter. Idiot. As if that made a difference. “Derek’s an alpha, older and _far_ less likely to do something stupid than Scott.”

“But Derek’s the worst of them,” Stiles muttered, ears picking up every sound Peter made as his teeth were pushed back out of their sockets. Blood started to trickle down his gums, onto the green of the apple flesh. “Derek’s the boy who was broken so he tries so hard to make up for it. He doesn’t know why it matters if he gets hurt. He’ll throw himself in front of a bullet because it’s something to _do_ , and he doesn’t know how it – that it affects-”

In his pocket, pressed against his leg, Stiles’ phone started to vibrate.

It didn’t register at first. But then, in a second, he’d released the apple, Peter, and was running from the room to somewhere _quiet_ , as he pulled the phone from his pocket.

Derek calling.

Taking a breath, sliding down against the banister until he was sat on the stairs, Stiles let his finger press firmly on ‘accept’.

“Hey, demon. This is the demon, right?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, eyes falling shut. “Yeah, it’s the demon.”

“Just checking. I just wasn’t expecting this guy to have put a heart in next to a _demon’s_ name.”

That comment took a few seconds to process. First, to figure out what the hunter had just said. Then -  “Derek hasn’t put a heart next to my name,” Stiles said, heart hammering, voice steady, and he tried to ignore the sound of the hunter laughing at him. “What are you doing? Wasting time? You don’t need to, you’ve got me where you want me and you know it. You don’t need to mock me anymore.”

“I don’t have to, but I can.”

Stiles’ free hand curled tightly around the edge of the stair he was sitting on.

“I’m just checking a theory, so sue me. I’m right though, aren’t I? If Fido here were a pubescent teenage boy – which he’s not far from being – he’d totally have a heart next to your name, right?”

He couldn’t answer that. He wasn’t _going_ to answer that, not to someone like – Stiles worried at his lip for a few seconds with his teeth, before asking, “Where are you?” Since all he got as a reply was more laughter, he asked again, “Where do you need me to _go?”_

The laughter died down to chuckles, and finally he was asked, “You’ve been in this town a while, yeah?”

“Seventeen years,” Stiles said without a beat.

“Sure. Then you’ll know the old and abandoned industrial park, with all these oh-so handy empty warehouses? We’re there.”

Stiles knew them. He’d run Jackson over in one of them, once, back when he’d still been the kanima. He and Scott had played hide and seek with added nerf gun action, back when they were about eleven. “Yeah, I know them. Which one?”

“Hell, what do you think we did, checked the address? We just picked one, I don’t know _which_ one. Anyway, I’m sure you’ll find us quick enough. There’s only about five.”

Yeah, he’d find them. It wasn’t like he had much choice.

“Oh, and I’m sure it goes without saying,” the hunter said, a tone of finality in his voice, “but come alone. There will, of course, be a gun pointed at your beloved’s temple until you’ve, ha, gone up in smoke.”

A snort made its way past Stiles’ lips, surprising even him. “How stupid do you think I am?”

“You don’t want me to answer that question.”

The next thing, Stiles was listening to a dead line.

*

The few minutes of silence triggered Sam to look up from the laptop’s screen and across to his brother. He’d clearly just hung up on the kid, and was still holding his phone in his hands, turning it over slowly as he thought. Sam thought, licking his lips and eyes darting back to screen quickly, before asking in a low voice, “Still think we’re doing the right thing?”

Eyes closed, Dean growled, shoving himself to his feet and forcing his cell back into his pocket. “Shut up, Sam,” he said roughly, striding over to the door, probably out to his car, for something to do.

Frowning, Sam glanced over at the alpha and beta they had tied up, watching the pair quietly mutter back and forth. Then, with a sigh, he moved his mouth to click close the article he’d found that outlined the death of the Sheriff’s wife, the picture a photographer had managed to capture of the husband carrying his crying son out of the wake in the very center of the page.

Trying to clear his head, Sam opened up his emails.

*

“Stiles, you don’t have to do this.”

Surprise surprise, at some point during Stiles’ phone call to the hunters, Deaton and Peter had made their way into the hallway.

“Yes, I do,” Stiles muttered, using the handrail to pull himself to his feet. He wasn’t going to bother trying to explain any more, until he saw the way Deaton moved to block his pathway to the front door. “Look”, Stiles groaned, head rolling, “We tried escaping them, it didn’t work. You think tricking them is going to work much better? I’ve got to go there, or Scott and Derek die, it’s as simple as that, it’s fact, it’s certain-”

“Only two things are certain,” Peter cut in, _again_ , waving his hands like a conductor.

“Yes, the universe and human stupidity, Einstein, I _know_ ,” Stiles said, but Peter raised a finger to cut him off again, correcting him with, “Actually, it’s death and taxes, Benjamin Franklin,” he said, so _smugly_ , “But your quote fits as well.”

Peter was saying he was going to die. Was that a threat, or a warning? It was getting really hard to tell, with Peter. “Why are you two so _against_ this?” he asked.

“Because it _can’t end well_ ,” Deaton pleaded – and yes, he was begging now. “Stiles, don’t you think Derek-”

“I think Derek would do that exact same thing for me,” Stiles said, clearly, before raising both hands.

Neither of them saw it coming, though they really should have. Peter went flying, twisting, until he slammed into the doorframe he’d just passed through. Deaton fell backwards, head slamming against the wall. He was out cold immediately.

Stiles winced as the vet slid to the floor. “Sorry, doc,” he muttered, pushing his phone into his pocket as he stepped forwards. “But I’ve _got_ to help Scott and Derek. I can’t afford to do the good thing anymore.” He turned the vet on his back, shoving his hands into the pockets of Deaton’s jackets, his jeans, until he found the keys for the bike.

Peter was stirring, groaning, when Stiles got back up again. “Stay,” Stiles ordered, pointing a finger at him. He waited until Peter met his gaze, waited to see him nod once, before muttering, “There’s a good dog,” and turning away.

He’d reached the door before he heard Peter say, “Try not to kill anyone, Brimstone Boy.”

Stiles paid no attention to him. He shut the door behind him with an absent wave of his hand, jogging down the porch’s step and across to the bike.

He’d never ridden a motorbike before. Never seen one started, actually, outside of movies. But hey, demons could do anything, right? And there was no denying he was a demon, not anymore.

He didn’t look back at the house as he drove away. He couldn’t let himself.

Hopefully Peter would be keeping an eye on Deaton. Hopefully he’d be able to explain.

*

It had started to rain, by the time Stiles got to the warehouses. His plaid shirt wasn’t so much flaring behind him in the wind, as it was soaked through and stuck to his skin. He had to keep blinking, to make sure he could see through the raindrops clinging to his eyelashes. His hands were frozen to the handles of the bike.

He brought the bike to a stop in the center of the industrial park, in between the two biggest warehouses. From the noise it made, he thought he’d probably stalled it rather than parked it – but it had stopped, and that was enough. He slid off it, and let it fall to the ground, crashing slightly, something black cracking and falling off, bouncing across the tarmac. Stiles followed its movement with his eyes, feeling a touch of guilt.

Then he let his lips twitch. He’d knocked the guy unconscious by throwing him against a wall, and _this_ was what made him feel guilty?

He dismissed it, and turned to face the nearest warehouse. About a year ago, he’d ran over Jackson in that warehouse, with no more provocation than Lydia appearing in his room crying and his dad telling him he was a hero.

He wasn’t feeling much like a hero right then.

Logic told him he couldn’t go through each one. He didn’t have time. He needed to save energy.

So instead, he did something he’d never done before. He closed his eyes, and reached out.

In seconds, all the power that the night gave, that he’d forever denied himself, flooded his limbs. It permeated every nerve, every inch of his skin, flexing it, pulling it, stretching his muscles and making his heart swell. His head cleared of everything, but one simple, sweet bloodlust.

He could feel them, now. The two humans, two simple souls flaring behind him. He could feel the life pouring from every beat of their hearts. Two stronger, animalistic souls, trapped and burning. Reaching out, brushing against the harsh flaring of their souls, he could feel their pain.

Stiles had always been too _nice_ , or so he’d been told. Always been too trusting. And he’d made that mistake here, it seemed, thinking the humans wouldn’t hurt the werewolves unless he gave them cause to.

Apparently, he’d been wrong.

And with that, the humans had chosen the tone of the fight.

Stiles flexed his shoulders, rolled his head, before opening his eyes. It was so much easier to see through the shadows, when his eyes were as black as them. And for once, he didn’t try and blink it away. He let his eyes stay a gleaming black as he blinked. If he rubbed his fingers together, he could still feel the residue of Peter’s blood on his fingers.

The closer he got to the doorway to the warehouse, the more he could feel the power swell inside him. The deeper it sunk.

The first thing he saw was the black car, parked outside the front. It took almost no thought at all to crush the engine. For a second, Stiles smiled.

He knew that he could have just as easily opened the huge double doors, those that had been built big enough to let zeppelins through, but that wasn’t what he wanted to do. But he also knew from playing around here for years that each warehouse also had a smaller door in the sides, to let the workmen through. The seams outlining this door was near indistinguishable from the black metal of the warehouse, but Stiles managed to find it soon enough. He opened it without a creak, slipping in through the smallest possible opening. He closed it just as quietly.

It was almost entirely empty inside, a few tables strewn with paper, empty boxes, car parts. At one table was sat the two hunters. One was swigging back a beer, the other intent on the computer screen in front of him.

Closer to him, the same side of the warehouse as Stiles, Scott and Derek were tied up, back to back. The skin on their arms was a burning, glowing red, scabbed over entirely by their wrists, the area around the thin string that was tying them down. That had been the pain that Stiles had felt.

Stiles breathed in. His fists clenched. The lamp to the left of him flickered.

Catching the change, Derek’s head jerked up, eyes looking straight at Stiles. Stiles met his gaze, and where Stiles was smiling, Derek looked terrified. Stiles tried to widen his grin, tried to reassure – until he realized all he was doing was baring more teeth.

Stiles stopped smiling, and blinked. The darkness covering his eyes faded, slightly, returning his brown eyes shortly, before the darkness swamped them once more. He held Derek’s gaze, waiting, _needing_ him to – eventually, Derek’s face smoothed out, and he nodded. Not just agreeing – motioning. Nodding _towards_. Stiles looked to where he was being directed, to see shapes marked on the floor in a nearly indistinguishable dark grey spray paint – a circle, starting half an inch from his feet. He didn’t recognize it, but it couldn’t mean anything good. As his hand reached down to it, a heat burnt from the symbols.

Crouching down, Stiles pulled his Swiss army knife from his pocket, flicking the short blade out. The handle slipped in his wet grip, but eventually he got a hold long enough to scratch out a good chunk of the circle. He held his hand out again – nothing.

_Let that be enough..._

It would be _too_ easy, Stiles knew, to be able to just grab Scott and Derek and _go_ , but he couldn’t stop himself. Still crouched low, he ran over the scratched symbols without a trouble, running light-footed and utterly silently across to the two of them. Scott still hadn’t seen him, had his back to Stiles, and was most probably asleep.

But the fear in Derek’s eyes doubled. He shook his head fiercely, and Stiles stopped, head twisting swiftly back to the brothers. They seemed to be arguing, paying no attention to this end of the warehouse. Confused, he looked back – to see Derek staring fixedly up.

They’d painted one onto the ceiling. The high roof, two stories high – how had they even got _up_ there? But either way, it was there, a stark white circle of symbols against the grey roof, and undoubtedly positioned so that the two trapped werewolves were right at the center.

Stiles looked back down, to see Derek watching him, an apology undoubtedly showing in his gaze. He was _sorry_. Sorry to be so much trouble, sorry to have put Stiles’ life at risk. He’d better be sorry for risking Stiles’ heart, too, the _bastard._ Stiles scowled at him, and Derek’s lips twitched.

_What does it do?_ Stiles mouthed at him, eyes glancing up every time he shifted to make sure he stayed far outside the boundaries of the circle. He didn’t know what its purpose was, but he knew it was stopping him from getting to Derek. All he wanted, was to hold Derek, get the rope off his wrists, to get him _out_ of there – and somehow, the Winchesters were stopping him from doing that, without even knowing he was there.

Derek shook his head, shrugging. He didn’t know what it did, either. Then he nodded, eyes fixed clearly on the knife in Stiles’ hand. Stiles knew what he meant instantly. Stiles couldn’t go inside, but it didn’t mean the knife couldn’t. And with his arms free, Derek could get himself and Scott out. Without another thought, Stiles set the knife down on the ground, and quietly as he could, slid it at the space between Derek and Scott, where their hands were.

It missed by a few inches, but Derek didn’t wait, just started to shuffle, twisting himself to try and reach the blade, pulling Scott along with him.

Scott’s head rolled to the side.

It hit Stiles, just as Derek finally managed to wrap his hands around the damp handle of the blade. Scott wasn’t asleep. Scott wouldn’t be able to sleep through this – he hadn’t even been able to sleep on Stiles’ sofa, that one time they’d had a sleep over in the lounge. Scott couldn’t sleep anywhere that didn’t have an entirely horizontal 3 inches of mattress, and some kind of duvet. Scott _couldn’t_ have slept upright, and certainly not with his life at risk, or even Stiles’.

He was unconscious.

The wolfsbane – for what else could it be – that was sinking in to his skin, was poisoning him.

Every one of Stiles’ muscles tensed, his black eyes fixed on Scott’s head, ash white and limp on his shoulder. One by one, starting with the closest, the lights in the warehouse started to flicker. The nearest bulb exploded.

And Stiles got to his feet.

When he turned around, he could see the hunters had already grabbed their guns, had seen him and were aiming at him with what was clearly a trained precision, but Stiles didn’t care. He let them come, let them point their weapons at him.

Another bulb blew.

He could make out their faces in the darkness, but he doubted they could see his any longer.

“You found the right place, then?”

Stiles didn’t answer him. It was a stupid question. Instead, he tilted his head back to where Derek and Scott were, and said, voice low, “I really recommend you release them.”

“Yeah, and we will,” Dean Winchester said, his sawn-off waving around loosely as he spoke. His eyes were fixed on the outline of Stiles that was most probably all he could see. “When you’re in hell. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You’re giving in?”

Stiles ignored him, turning instead to the taller one. “Samuel?” he tried, and was rewarded by a slight jerk of the head that told him he’d remembered right. “It’d _really_ be best if you let them go now.”

“Is this a _threat_?” Sam asked him, head tilting. “You came alone, didn’t you? There’s no one else here. And you’re threatening us?”

A soft smile twisted its way onto Stiles’ face. He shrugged. “It was worth a try,” he sighed out, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. No doubt triggered by his movement, the two hunters shifted their grips on their guns. “Yeah, I’m here alone. The others didn’t want me to come, so I knocked them out. That what you wanted to hear?”

He could feel Derek behind him, the stare fixed on the back of his head.

Dean laughed. “Yeah, that’ll do. So, you ready to go back home?”

Stiles didn’t reply, but licked his lips.

“You got anything you want to say? Last words, type of thing?” Samuel asked, voice careful, and Stiles watched with fascination as Dean’s head jerked across to frown at his brother.

“Yes,” Stiles said, making both brothers’ attention return to him. “I wanted to let you two know that you’re right, actually. And, treasure that. I don’t often tell people they’re right, ask the two behind me,” he said, tongue flying away, as it always did. He sighed out, pushing his breath between his lips, holding his body as perfectly still as he could as he talked. “I played at being human for seventeen years, and I still haven’t been able to get it quite right. And I’m not saying this for _you_ , don’t for a _second_ think I’m saying this for _you_ ,” he spat to the two hunters. “I’m saying this, because... because it needs to be said. I played at being human, but you’re right, I’m not human. A human wouldn’t want to pull you limb from limb right now. A human wouldn’t be _able_ to. But I don’t think I’m a demon, either. Because I love the two men behind me – hell, love one, and I’m _in_ love with the other – and I’m pretty sure demons can’t do that. And I just... hope that... _people_ remember that.”

The silence he could hear behind him was a little disconcerting. Making him feel like an idiot, actually. But he ignored it, forced himself to ignore it, and to focus on the Winchesters, as one smirked, and the other frowned. “You done, Romeo?” Dean asked.

“One more thing,” Stiles said. A third bulb blew. Stiles started to shake, eyes burning with an ice-cold, all-consuming darkness. He breathed in sharply, eyes flashing up to the brothers. He smiled. “I’m not sorry.”

The humans couldn’t react quick enough, pathetic things that they were. By the time Stiles had stepped forwards they’d barely aimed their weapons. Stiles wrenched the sawn-off from Dean’s hands, and shoved him to the side carelessly. The crack of bone made him laugh. He’d never broken someone’s bone before. Ignoring the body lying haphazardly on the floor, he turned to Sam, swinging a punch upwards, at his jaw, that knocked the human off balance, making it _too_ easy to slam him back against the wall. The whole building shook as his body hit the metal wall, a cacophony that made it sound like it was about to fall down around them.

“If I kill you,” Stiles mused, logic and bloodlust fighting for control in his head, “Will that be enough to make Dean back off? If I wave your head in front of his face?”

He lifted a hand, ready to move to snap Samuel Winchester’s neck. But then someone was screaming, someone was yelling, someone was crying out Scott’s name, someone was firing a gun and someone was slamming into Stiles’ side.

And Scott was lying where Stiles had stood, three bullet holes in his chest.

Dumbstruck, Stiles crouched down beside his best friend, fingers reaching out to trace the scabs that covered his arms, the black lines leading from his wrist to his head, and the three bleeding holes that covered his heart.

He couldn’t tell if Scott was breathing or not.

He hadn’t wanted this. He hadn’t _planned_ this. He hadn’t _let this happen_.

His hands were shaking again. Where before there had been dried blood on his hands, blood he’d chosen to put there, now there was hot and fresh blood covering the tips of his fingers.

Stiles closed his eyes, hand resting flat on Scott’s cheek. The lights, instead of flickering, started to burn, steady, consistent.

“ _Stiles..._ ”

He ignored Derek.

He could hear the scramble as the Winchester he’d been so _close_ to killing got to his feet. He flung out a hand, grabbing the body with purely demonic power and flinging it across to the other side of the warehouse. He didn’t hit metal this time. He hit concrete. Something cracked loudly. Someone cried out Sam’s name.

Stiles ignored it.

He opened his eyes. He traced a line down the side of Scott’s face, blood red, and brushed a strand of hair out of the boy’s face. “If someone had to die,” Stiles said, his voice quiet, “I had hoped it wouldn’t be you. But I promise you this.” He pushed himself to his feet, his body shaking as he turned to look at where Dean Winchester was crawling helplessly across the floor to where his brother lay, unconscious, bleeding out on the grey concrete. “You won’t be the only one to die today.”

As he stepped towards the scrabbling hunter, he watched with fury as the man didn’t shake with fear, but turned his face up towards him with determination. _Come on_ , he was saying, _come on, bitch. Kill me if you think you can_.

Stiles lifted a hand, curling his fingers. Dean gasped, a hand reaching up to his neck. It was tempting to squeeze, watch his face turn blue, his hands scrabble desperately for some touch of air. Stiles had always wanted to know what it looked like when someone was choked to death. If their head went as blue as they did in the cartoons.

He’d test that with the next one.

“Stiles, _no..._ ”

Stiles shoved his hand forwards, palm out. Dean slammed against the side of the wall with a beautifully satisfying thud, and a grunt of pain as the splintered bone in his leg was crushed even more beneath Stiles’ force.

He’d once heard, somewhere, to fear good men, because a good man would kill you without a word.

He guessed he wasn’t a good man.

“You stink of hell, Dean Winchester,” he hissed, stepping forwards. Dean winced, the pressure that was slowly crushing his lungs increasing. “You stink of hellfire and blood and sliced souls, it’s _allll_ over you. I can see it in your eyes, the fear of it all. The fear of what you’ve _done_. You’re running, Dean Winchester, you’re ashamed and you’re terrified you’re going to be facing a rack again. The fear’s coming off you in waves, and, _oohhh,_ that smells _good_.” Stiles wasn’t lying. He could smell it, pouring of the human in _waves_. Derek was still calling his name, but Stiles didn’t care. He wasn’t going to listen to Derek. If it wasn’t for Derek, for his stupid, _human_ feelings for the creature, Stiles wouldn’t be here. Wouldn’t have Scott’s blood on his hands.

“You want to know the difference between you and me,” Stiles breathed, taking another step forwards, feeling Dean’s ribs bend that little bit more beneath his strength, “you’re running from hell. I _miss_ it.”

The other hunter had woken up. He was begging Stiles, asking him to show mercy. He sounded so pitiful.

Stiles laughed.

“I do, I actually do! I miss it! All that raw fury, the hatred, how you could scream so _loud_ , the power behind making someone else scream... I’ve been fighting it, for so _long_ , trying to be the good man, the human, and it takes up so much energy to fight it, left me so confused and unfocused. But not anymore. You want me to be a demon? Sure, I’ll be a demon. I’ll torture you, I’ll rip. _You. Apart_. And I’ll do it all for you, because you _killed_ my _best friend!_ ” Stiles roared. The first rib cracked. Blood started to seep through the human’s shirt.

Dean yelled in pain.

“Stiles, this isn’t you-” Derek’s hand touched Stiles’ shoulder. A twist of his hand, and Stiles sent him flying out of the way.

“Please – _please_ – Stiles, is it? Stiles, please, I’m begging you, don’t kill him – please – _Dean-”_

Stiles rolled his head towards Sam, smirking. “Don’t worry, pumpkin, you’re next,” he assured him. Dean pushed against him, apparently a sudden rage giving him more strength. Stiles turned back to him in shock. He was straining to get away from the wall, face contorted into the most aggressive, most sincere show of fury Stiles had ever seen.

For a second, Stiles flinched.

“You kill my brother, and I swear to _God_ ,” Dean gritted out, blood starting to trickle from a corner of his mouth. “I swear to God-”

“Don’t swear to God,” Stiles said, “Tell him. You’ll be seeing him in a few seconds.”

He’d had enough. Scott’s blood was starting to cool on his skin. He didn’t have the patience to deal with this anymore. And Derek’s voice was starting to hurt.

He pressed his hand forwards, waiting for those cracks that’d mean death.

“That’s enough now, son. I think you can let me arrest them now.”

And there, that voice. That was a voice that, through anything, Stiles would always react to.

He didn’t let Dean fall to the floor. He gently lowered the human down, letting him lie down flat on the concrete. When Sam scrambled over to him, blood pouring from a head wound making the younger Winchester half-blind, Stiles didn’t stop him.

“Good. Now, you think you can let the officials do their work, for once in your life?”

Stiles didn’t trust himself to turn around – but he couldn’t stop himself. Trembling with something entirely different to the rage he’d felt seconds before, he slowly moved, turning one foot then the other, so scared about what he’d see behind him.

It was his dad. His _dad_. He was standing there, so calmly, looking the same as ever in his Sheriff’s uniform, one hand resting on the badge at his hip, the thumb of the other hooked onto his belt. Behind him, wolfed out and spread out in what Stiles recognized as their defense formation, were Isaac, Boyd, Jackson, Erica, and even Lydia. Isaac smiled at him. Boyd winked, his face completely straight, before returning his gaze to the Winchesters.

“Dad?” Stiles choked out. Water started to pour from his eyes, tears of rage and confusion and finally, oh god _finally_ , hope.

“Who else would willingly clean up your messes?” his dad asked sardonically, lip twitching, before he coughed awkwardly, a cough so familiar that made Stiles just want to collapse against his dad, hug him and cry like he’d used to. “Um – kid – you’ve, eh, got something, kind of... _covering_ your eye.”

“Oh,” Stiles muttered, blinking furiously, both to get the water out of his eyes, and at an attempt to shove the blackness away. His dad had finally seen his eyes, and he hadn’t even _flinched_.

_My dad is the best dad, in the_ world.

“You – uh, you know that-” Stiles muttered, hand reaching up to rub at his eyes.

“Yeah, your pals came and told me earlier today,” his dad said, looking back around at Isaac. “Though it would have saved a lot of trouble if you’d just come and told me yourself, kiddo.” He frowned at Stiles, disapprovingly.

Isaac? _They’d_ told – “But – I thought-”

“Stiles, no offense,” Dad said, holding up a hand, “but perhaps we can do the figuring out later? I’m kind of working right now, kid.”

Stiles blinked, and, finally, he felt his eyes clear. “Oh. Yeah, um, I guess so?”

His dad almost smiled again. “Good. Go check on Scott – make sure he’s okay, whilst I deal with the Winchesters.” As he walked past, Stiles froze, not sure what he should do. He was right to freeze – his dad didn’t go near him, didn’t touch him, pat him on the shoulder.

But he was speaking to him. He was calling him kiddo, kid, son, Stiles – and for now, that could be enough. They could – they _would_ work through this.

Everyone but Isaac walked past Stiles, following his dad to the Winchesters. Isaac met Stiles’ gaze once, before, at the same time, they ran over to where Scott was lying on the floor.

Derek was already there, leaning over the boy and trying to pull the last vestiges of the rope from his wrists. Three bullets were already on the floor beside him, just outside the small pool of blood.

And his chest was slowly rising and falling.

Skidding to his knees beside the head of his best friend, Isaac falling to a stop on Stiles’ left, Stiles gasped, “I thought he was dead! He – he wasn’t breathing, I thought for sure he was dead-”

But Derek shook his head, wincing at he picked at the rope around Scott’s wrist. “No. He’s badly wounded, but healing. They were normal bullets, and the wolfsbane isn’t a permanent kind. They weren’t, actually, trying to kill us. With the ties, anyway.”

“So he’ll live?” Isaac asked, breathlessly, eyes fixed on the holes in his packmate’s chest.

Derek nodded, a small growl pushing between his lips as the rope slipped out of his grasp, landing right back in place on Scott’s wrists. “Yes. We should get him to Deaton, and it’ll take a while, but he’ll be fine.”

At the mention of Deaton’s name, Stiles was the one wincing. “I – ah-”

“Don’t worry, Deaton’s fine,” Isaac cut in, lips twisting into a smirk, which, Stiles had the strangely amusing feeling, was probably due to Stiles’ discomfort. “Peter’s still at his house, he’s looking after him.”

Stiles blinked in shock. “Peter’s-?”

Isaac nodded. “Yeah, called us about, what, ten minutes ago?” As Stiles continued to stare, unashamedly gobsmacked, Isaac shrugged nonchalantly. “You should be lighter on the guy. He’s the one who figured they couldn’t tell your dad, and sent us to fetch him, instead.”

“But he actually _stayed_ to help Deaton-?”

As Derek groaned wearily, Stiles turned from Isaac to look at him. It was the first time he’d let himself look, properly, and any trust issues with Peter were momentarily dismissed at the sight. “Stiles,” Derek was groaning, frowning at him, “What did you do to Deaton?”

But it was hard to feel guilty about Deaton, when all he could see was a swelling black bruise surrounding Derek’s left eye. Frowning, and stomach tying itself into knots, Stiles raised a hand hesitantly. “The same thing I did you to, apparently.”

He expected Derek to shove his hand away – wouldn’t have blamed him for it if he did – but Derek half-smiled, and actually leant forwards, making it easier for Stiles rest his hand against Derek’s face, finger lightly brushing over the black eye, checking it, seeing how much damage he’d made.

Derek closed his eyes briefly at the touch, breathing out slowly. “It’s not too bad,” he promised – words made completely pointless as he winced again, and loudly swore down at the rope he was still trying to pull away from Scott’s skin.

Tutting, Stiles let go of Derek’s face to slap his hands away from where they were working. “No wonder you’re being so dreadful at this, your hands are still red raw,” he grumbled, kept slapping at Derek until his hands were as far from the wolfsbane as he could get them. “Leave it, let _me_ do it,” he instructed. When Derek snorted at him gruffly, in what Stiles could just about tell was both amusement and annoyance, Stiles smirked.

“You’re not the boss of me,” Derek muttered, and Stiles barely managed to stop himself outright laughing. Beside him, he heard Isaac fail quite impressively at hiding his laughter behind a cough.

“Ah, you don’t know how wrong you are,” Stiles chuckled nervously, picking up the final piece of string, and calmly throwing it several feet away.

“Actually, I think I know exactly how wrong I am,” Derek contradicted, but he wasn’t mocking Stiles this time. There was a softness to his voice, almost a self-deprecating tone, that made Stiles look up at him. Derek was watching him, with that same gentle expression that Stiles could remember mocking him for earlier. His eyes were soft, and his lips were tilted into what passed as a soft smile for Derek. Unable to stop himself, Stiles smiled back. Yeah. Stiles was totally going to claim that expression as his own.

“Man, you’re totally whipped,” Isaac cut in. When Stiles turned to glare at him, seeing Derek do the same out of the corner of his eye, Isaac’s eyes widened and he raised both hands in defense. “What? I thought I’d better say something before you two started making out in front of me!”

“You really think we’d do that? With Scott lying between us, bleeding out, like the complete damsel in distress?” Stiles asked, hand going to press against his chest, mouth open, _completely_ affronted.

Isaac grinned at him. “You don’t want me to answer that.”

Stiles laughed.

“Okay kids,” Derek sighed, and Stiles turned back to face him just as Derek started to slip his arms under Scott’s knees and neck. “Let’s get moving. Isaac, is there a spare car out there we can use?” Isaac nodded. Derek pushed himself to his feet, lifting Scott up with him. Stiles and Isaac got to their feet as well, following Derek. “Good – go get it ready, you’re coming with me to Deaton’s.” Isaac nodded again, sending one last look to the pack and the Winchesters, before jogging off and outside.

Derek watched him go, but Stiles’ eyes were fixed on Derek. It wasn’t until Isaac had left through the same door Stiles had arrived in that Derek finally turned to look back at Stiles. “Are you coming with us?” he asked quietly, eyes narrowed with concern. “It’s up to you, but... I think you’re going to want to go back with your dad.”

Stiles smiled, turning to glance over his shoulder to where his dad was handcuffing the two hunters, under the protective supervision of the pack. “You know me too well,” he said, quite happily, turning back to Derek. Derek shrugged, his facial expression the furthest thing from modesty. Stiles laughed, and leaned forwards.

Derek stepped back, one eyebrow raised. “What, over Scott, bleeding out like a damsel in distress?”

Stiles just smiled wider. “ _Yes_ ,” he said, before leaning over Scott and pressing his lips to Derek’s quickly, but firmly. “Now _go_ ,” he said, pulling back, and slapping Derek on the thigh. “Go, make sure my best friend’s still alive. His life’s in your hands. Literally!”

Derek smiled at him, not saying a word, before turning and walking carefully to the same door Isaac had left through. When Derek looked back over his shoulder, at Stiles, once more, Stiles was still watching him.

Stiles only turned away when he heard the door of whatever car Isaac had misappropriated slam shut.

When he turned to look at the other scene going on, it was to see the two Winchesters being led from the warehouse from the now open huge double doors. Sam was leaning against Jackson, the beta holding him upright – but at least he was walking by himself. The other – Dean – was being carried out by Boyd, face tight and unmoving, even when he must surely have felt pain. His ribs _had_ to be splintered, if not broken. Neither of the brothers was letting the other out of their sight.

Erica, Lydia and his dad were following them. Stiles jogged to catch up, making sure to leave a good few meters space between him and his dad. “What happens now?”

“Well, we’ll get them back to the station, and see from there,” his dad sighed, hand shoved in his pocket as he tried to find the keys for his cruiser. “Dammit, where _are_ they-”

“But is it over?” The words came out quicker than Stiles had been planning, and with far more fear, and his Dad must have heard it. Of course he did. His dad picked up on everything.

His dad stopped just as suddenly as Stiles had spoken, turning to face him, and Stiles stopped with him. His hand twitched, as if he was going to reach out, pull Stiles into a hug – but he didn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to touch Stiles. And that was fine. Stiles would manage. He’d hadn’t even dared hope for _this_.

“Yes, Stiles,” his dad said, smiling at him. “It’s okay. It’s over. You’re safe now, I promise.”

And that was all Stiles would ever need to hear, from the one person he’d only ever need to hear it from.

*

“I mean, I always knew you were caught up in something _strange_ , kiddo,” Dad said, slipping into his office and closing the door carefully behind him, “But... can’t say I was expecting _this_.”

Nodding frantically and anxiously in the swivel chair he always sat in – had been sat in, waiting, for a good forty minutes as he dad had dealt with the Winchesters, and panicking for every second of it – Stiles hummed agreement. “Well, it’s not really part of the usual fears of a parent, not like the schools tells parents to be wary of _that_ on parents’ evenings – grades are fine, but make sure your child doesn’t partake in drugs, orgies, or get caught up in the local werewolf pack!”

“Or to check under his bed for satanic ritual stuff,” his dad added wryly, sighing out as he slipped into his chair, the other side of the desk.

Stiles winced. “I don’t actually-”

His dad snorted. “Yeah, I know. Your – what’s his name, Isaac?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, he told me.” His dad paused again. Stiles didn’t know what to say. Hell, what _could_ he say? Eventually, his dad laughed again, head falling into his hands. “Dammit, kid,” he said, “Can’t even be a demon right, can you?”

Stiles smiled. “Uh, I guess not. Though... that’s a good thing?”

“ _Yeah_ , I’ll say!” his dad agreed, still laughing, raising his head to meet Stiles’ gaze. But his smile froze the minute he did so. His laughter stopped, fading to a sigh. “I dunno, Stiles,” he breathed, shaking his head.

_He’s still here. He hasn’t run, or tried to shoot me. I couldn’t have asked for more._ “If it helps,” Stiles tried, quiet as he dared, “The reason I went to hell was because I sold my soul, trying to save my old family. I’ve never – it wasn’t for something bad, wasn’t because I _deserved_ to be there.” He’d get down on his hands and knees to beg, if he thought it’d make a difference. But that wasn’t ever the way he and Dad had done things. He didn’t see a reason to start now.

He waited, patient as he could be, hands twisting in his lap, as his dad thought. “Old family?” he echoed eventually. “Do you – do you still remember them?”

It was so tempting to lie. “Yes, a little bit,” Stiles forced himself to admit, forcing himself to watch his dad’s face, see the momentary pain there. “But really, just flashes, faces occasionally. I don’t know their names. Dad – you’re my family, more than they ever were, I think. _Mom_ was my family. I promise. You gotta trust me on this, Dad, _please_.”

“I do, Stiles,” his dad said, without a pause, and Stiles could _breathe_ again. “Yeah... I do.” He sighed out, and Stiles waited again, clearly seeing the cogs turning in his dad’s brain, as he moved from one topic to another. “I’m gonna guess you want to apologize to the Winchesters, now you’re not all... black-eyed vengeful,” he said, and Stiles had to smile at how well his dad knew him. _This_ was why his dad was more his family than _they_ had ever been. “But you can’t. For one thing, they both need to go to hospital. The state they’re in, I can _not_ leave them in the cells.”

“I think it’ll be a few days before I think I’ll be able to speak to them, without wanting to...” Stiles trailed off, the image of Scott and Derek’s wrists in his head. Not to mention Scott’s bullet-ridden chest.

“Yeah, I can see that,” his dad muttered, face falling that bit darker. “Give it a few days, and I’ll let you speak to them. I’ve spoken to them, and I think it might be worth you hearing their side of the story. You... you ever heard of a ‘Crowley’?”

Genuinely confused, Stiles frowned at his dad. He was watching him with concern in his eyes, but with a hardness in his gaze that Stiles only saw occasionally – in court, mostly, when the juries called out their final verdict. “No idea, don’t think so,” Stiles said truthfully. “Why?” he asked warily.

He waited, as his dad opened, then closed his mouth. “Nothing, it’s nothing, I’ll deal with it,” his dad said, pulling a piece of paper forwards and scribbling something on it.

“Dad?”

“It’s okay!” his dad insisted, with a laugh and a smile that was only very slightly genuine. “Don’t worry. I can sort it out.”

Stiles had long learnt it was better than to argue with his dad when he said he’d ‘sort it out’. Instead, Stiles shut his mouth, and pitied the guy at the business end of his dad’s intent. “Speaking of... sorting things out,” Stiles said, hopefully, as if that might counteract how _pitiful_ a link that was, “I was thinking, on the way over here-”

“About not crashing that bike, I hope.”

There hadn’t been enough room in the cruiser for four werewolves, two hunters and a sheriff, so Jackson and Lydia had taken his Porsche, and Stiles, after _politely_ declining Jackson’s offer, had taken Deaton’s bike again. “No... well, yes, obviously!” Stiles corrected hurriedly as his dad’s eyebrows rose swiftly. “Yes, but – I thought – ah, um – I’ve got a place I think I could stay, for a little while... might make it easier, for you, if I’m out of the house for a while – didn’t think you’d want...” _a spawn of hell living under your roof anymore_.

Stiles tried not to feel any hurt as he watched his dad seriously consider the offer. “If you think,” his dad said slowly, “that you think that’s a good idea... I guess... breathing space might be an idea, for a little while.” As Dad met his eyes suddenly, Stiles tried to force a serious, logical look onto his face. It didn’t quite work. “I still love you,” his dad said, quickly, “And you’re still my son, my Stiles – but, it, it’s gonna take a while to get used to this, you know?” When Stiles tried to nod, his dad frowned, moving his head to make sure he kept Stiles’ gaze. “You’re not leaving me, kiddo. Not after all this.”

And with that, Stiles’ chest didn’t feel quite as tight. He smiled at his dad, who grinned a lopsided grin back, and nodded sharply, before saying, “Right. There’s a load of your laundry in the wash right now, which you’ll probably want to collect when that’s done – oh, gods, _now_ why are you flinching?”

Stiles winced, in preparation, as he tried saying, “Because possibly almost half of my clothing has got blood on it at the moment?”

He winced even more as his dad’s jaw fell open. “You mean that’s _actually_ yours?”

“Hold up, whose did you _think_ it was?” Stiles gaped back. “Someone _else_ was just popping by and leaving bloody plaid shirts and hoodies all over my bedroom floor?”

“I thought those fake FBI guys had left them there to trick me into thinking you were a murderer!” Dad yelled back defensively, hands raising.

“Wait, they told you I was a murder?” Stiles yelled back, eyes falling wide. “And you _knew_ they were fake?”

“Of course I knew they were fake, they’ve been all over every wanted list for the last five years! They’re wanted from Texas to North Dakota!” Shock and defense finally fell away, leaving amusement. “Huh – something about my work that little Stiles Stilinski didn’t know.”

Stiles was torn between strangling his dad for calling him ‘little’ or implying there was something he didn’t know, or just jumping into his lap to hug the shit out of him. “I was a little busy running for my life at the time,” he mumbled. He smiled when Dad laughed.

“Well, while we’re here,” his dad said, leaning back comfortably in his chair – and the way his hand flicked out reflexively as if to pick up a mug, or a _doughnut_ from his desk definitely _wasn’t_ something Stiles was going to forget in a hurry – “Anything else you’d like to spring on me?”

“Uuhhhhm, I think I’m dating a cleared felon? And we’re down a _lot_ of supplies in our first aid kit, I mean, so many bandages, I think I’ve used up like seventy-five percent of the antiseptic, too-”

“No, _shut up_ , and back up a couple of words there?” his dad cut in, frowning again and hands landing on the desk as he leant forwards. Yeah, Stiles’ method of distraction was working just as well as ever.

Swallowing, Stiles tried to look innocent. Ha. Like that ever worked. “Um, the cleared felon thing? Just thought, if we’re getting everything into the open...”

Clearly mentally asking God why he’d ended up with such a son, Dad was leaning on the desk with his elbows, and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why do I get the feeling this... ‘cleared felon’ is also the head honcho of the local pack of haphazard werewolves?”

“I do not know why you’re getting that feeling, but it’s a pretty accurate feeling, well done!” Stiles tried saying jovially. Apparently, not the right approach.

His dad groaned, head falling forwards and almost slamming the desk. “And what do you mean, ‘think’ you’re dating?”

“Heh, well,” Stiles laughed, voice shaking, “We haven’t really done much talking – oh, _gods!_ No! Not like that! I did _not_ mean it like that!”

But, backtrack however much he wanted to, he’d still said it, and his dad was still staring at him like he was seriously considering castrating him.

“I’m,” Stiles tried, humming out the ‘m’ sound for as long as he could, hoping his brain would provide a good cop-out comment, “technically several centuries older than the legal age limit for intercourse?”

“Intercourse,” his dad echoed monotonously, staring at the desk. “Centuries.”

“Okay, perhaps not the _best_ comment to make,” Stiles muttered. “Um. The pack’s ‘round his house almost the entire time, so it’s not like we’re gonna get much private time, even if I _am_ going to be staying ‘round-”

“ _Staying ‘round,”_ his dad echoed again, this time in not so much of a monotone.

“Also, a _very_ not best comment to make,” Stiles said. “Uh.”

“ _Help!”_ his dad yelled suddenly, still not looking up from his desk.

Almost instantly, the door to the office opened, and Stiles spun in his chair, fully prepared to make a run for it.

No such need. In the doorway stood Derek. Stiles hadn’t even heard him and Isaac arrive. Somewhere along the way, Derek had picked up a change of clothes, now in a pristine Henley and untorn jeans – but his leather jacket, the one Stiles had cried into, was still in place. He was also wearing a pair of aviator sunglasses, and, as it was the middle of the night, and even Derek wasn’t that much of a douche (Jackson, perhaps, not Derek), Stiles could only assume it was to hide the nice big black eye he was now sporting, all thanks to Stiles.

“Sir?” Derek said, voice bland.

“Get this little delinquent out of my office,” Dad ordered, lifting his head and arms long enough to wave Stiles and Derek away.

Stiles was _sure_ he hadn’t imagined the quirk to his dad’s lips as he realised it was Derek. Stiles was also sure, unfortunately, that Derek hadn’t missed it either.

“Yessir,” Derek replied, and, without preamble, walked around to the front of Stiles’ chair, grabbed him by the waist and flung him face first over his shoulder.

Stiles is not ashamed to say he squeaked.

As Derek turned to walk out of the doorway, Stiles was left facing his dad. He scowled – his dad pressed a fist to his mouth to stop himself from laughing. Stiles scowled harder.

He was halfway through being carried out of the door, and was deepening his scowl with every step, before his dad said, “And Derek, take note – you hurt him, and you’ll be the next person I have to check into the hospital.”

“Sir, if I hurt him,” Derek said, pausing momentarily, one foot out of the room and one still in, “I won’t consider myself worth the doctor’s efforts.”

Stiles could see the astonishment on his dad’s face at the words. He was sure it matched the astonishment on his own. He was only aware that his jaw had fallen open from how he could suddenly feel Derek’s back beneath it.

“Okay, then,” his dad said eventually. “See you two tomorrow.”

And with that, Derek started walking. Just before they turned the corner of the corridor and left sight, Stiles saluted his dad. Smiling, his dad saluted back.

His dad might not have touched him yet, and Stiles might have to move out for a short while, but that was okay.

Stiles, finally, had his dad back.

*

Chris Argent was there, when Stilinski arrived back at the holding cell he’d put the two Winchesters in. He was still rather impressed with himself, he had to admit, with how little surprise he’d shown when the felons had said his name, when asked if they wanted their one phone call. But then, Stilinski had long stopped bothering to be surprised that anyone in this crazy town of his was mixed up with the supernatural shit that was going down, after being told that Doctor Deaton – the _vet_ , of all people – was the one who’d be stitching Scott back together again.

He was expecting Argent to say something, as Stilinski swung open the metal door (unlocked – he doubt someone with a broken leg and cracked ribs would be going anywhere fast, and he got the feeling neither brother would be leave the other behind for anything), but he didn’t say a word, just nodded at the Sheriff. Stilinski nodded back, before turning his attention to the two felons.

“I called an ambulance,” he said, settling into position, hands automatically falling to rest on his belt, as they always did. “It usually takes fifteen minutes to get here. So this is what’s going to happen in the meantime.”

As he paused for breath, the brothers exchanged glances with themselves and Argent. Stilinski knew why they’d called him in, a fine upstanding citizen – they thought he was going to beat the crap out of them.

It was tempting. A few hours ago, they’d been trying to kill his _kid_. But there were more pressing matters at hand.

“You’re going to tell me everything you know about this Crowley,” the Sheriff said calmly, “And then I’ll do what I can to stop the FBI finding out where you are. Is that a deal?”

*

Stiles will forever be grateful that Derek managed to carry him out of the Sheriff’s office without running into any of the pack. “Sooo,” he said, as Derek passed by all the cars in the parking lot and headed out into the dark street, with Stiles _still_ over his shoulder, “You gonna put me down, like, now... any time... or even at all...”

Derek chuckled, but didn’t say a word.

“Or at least tell me where we’re going?”

“Guess.”

Stiles smiled, safe in the knowledge Derek wouldn’t see and know he’d won.

It was hard to guess, what with facing the wrong way. But, when they started to hit the track that led into the forest, Stiles had a pretty good idea.

“Okay, I think I know where we’re going now,” Stiles said, the smile definitely clear in his voice. He didn’t mind. “You can _probably_ set me down, I mean, it’s not like I’m gonna run away or anything, and to be honest, my stomach’s kinda hurting...”

Derek slowed to a stop, then, setting his hands lightly on Stiles’ hips where they rested on his shoulder, picked him up and set him back on the path as if he weighed nothing. “Better?” he asked, lips tilted into a smile.

“An argument can be made,” Stiles agreed, and, before he could stop himself, his tongue just kept going. “I mean, I can’t see your butt as clearly from here and that’s always going to be a negative to a situation, but in contrast I can see your face, and that’s – that’s pretty good, yeah.” As he’d been talking, one of Derek’s eyebrows had slowly starting to rise. A few seconds standing in what Stiles felt was awkward silence, chewing his lip, before he started again with, “Is this okay? Am I allowed to do this? Because I guess I’m kinda forcing myself on you here without knowing if you like it, and I would _not_ count it against you if you ran, like, now. I mean, I told _hunters_ I loved you before I told _you_ I love you, even if I was technically talking to you, but _still_ , and then I only went and threw you against a wall, not to mention how my eyes go black, and I, like, stink of rotten eggs, and am _so_ annoying and you can do better than me, dude, I’m just-”

It wasn’t his choice to stop. Hell, it hadn’t been a choice to _start_. But the stopping thing was forced upon him, due to Derek reaching out and slapping his hand across Stiles’ mouth. Having learned that rants didn’t quite work with someone’s hand covering your face, Stiles’ tongue stopped moving.

“One quick question,” Derek said, lips still in that tilted smile. “Before I kiss you.” Stiles’ eyes widened, and his heart jackrabbited as Derek, bastard that he is, took his time to continue. “Are you _always_ going to be this annoying?”

As answering verbally wasn’t an option, Stiles just nodded apologetically.

To his surprise, Derek just smiled widely, like this was a good thing. “Then – Stiles, I carried you halfway to my house. Because that’s obviously a sign that I find you annoying. I love you, too. Black eyes? Fine. Mine turn red. Wall? Trust me, you can throw me against one whenever you like. I like looking at your butt too. And – and remember this, because it’s the most important – I will never, _ever_ , be able to do better than you.” And with that, Derek took his hand from Stiles’ mouth.

Stiles couldn’t take his eyes away from Derek’s, barely visible through the darkness of his glasses in place to hide his black eye. And yet, somehow, he managed to grab hold of Derek’s hand without missing and pull it back up to his lips. He kissed the back of Derek’s hand, nothing more than the softest brush of his lips, before mumbling against the warm skin, “You’re wrong, you know. Not that I’m going argue all that fiercely. But you could so do better than me. Just – your _cheekbones_.”

With a gentle tug, Derek drew his hand away from Stiles’ lips, instead twisting their joined hands, knotting their fingers together, and carefully, with such clear focus, pressing the base of Stiles’ thumb against his own lips. Stiles could feel Derek’s hot breath ghosting over his skin, moving the hairs on the back of his hand, before Derek’s lightly chapped lips pressed down briefly. “Your humour,” Derek said, moving on the base of the next finger before continuing, “Your eyes,” then the next finger, “Your selflessness, your bravery, your trust...”

“Okay, stop it, you’re making me blush,” Stiles muttered, really, really wishing he was just joking.

Derek chuckled, pressing his lips against the inside of Stiles’ hand one final time, before lowering their hands. He didn’t untangle their fingers. “There’s no one here to see it, if you are,” Derek pointed out, making a show of looking around.

“There’s _you_ ,” Stiles said, heart still thudding, and cheeks, traitorously, still burning.

“I like to think I don’t count,” Derek replied.

To that... “I could make this all even cheesier, and say that you’ve always counted?” Stiles offered, trying a sheepish smile.

That sheepish smile doubled in size as Derek chuckled – which, for him, Stiles knew, was all-out belly-shaking laughter. “If you want,” Derek said, smiling broadly back at him.

He didn’t Derek smile enough, Stiles realised.

Well, _that_ was going to change.

Making a decision, Stiles reached up, using a finger to push Derek’s sunglasses up from resting on his nose, to perching on top of his head. The bruise Stiles had caused was now livid on Derek’s skin, almost completely black and purple, surrounding his eye. Stiles let his finger fall from the glasses and trace the outside outline of the bruise, barely touching.

Then, slowly, so not to mess up his first time doing this – god knows he messed stuff up enough – he settled his hand against Derek’s cheek. His eyes flicked from Derek’s lips to eyes, once, checking if he could. When nothing there made Stiles want to hesitate, he looked back to that tilted smile he was really starting to love, and leant forwards.

He closed his eyes before their lips touched, so his brain was entirely focused on those few inches of contact, the feel of Derek’s face beneath his hand, the rough touch of his lips, the warm breath being exchanged before Derek started to kiss him back. Then it was all pressure, friction of chapped lips and the occasional nick of teeth, and more contact as Derek’s hand held onto Stiles’ hips like he thought Stiles would actually be able to leave him.

To prove him wrong, Stiles grabbed a handful of the back of Derek’s leather jacket. He pressed their chests together, bit onto Derek’s bottom lip, sucked it, let their hearts thud together through their chests.

This kiss wasn’t as frantic as the kiss in the bathtub. Wasn’t as tender as the one that had followed, or as loving as that first kiss in the car.

This kiss was a promise of better things to come.

They pulled apart slowly, that kiss lingering, a second being pressed hesitantly, foreheads resting as they breathed, reluctant to give way to any form of separation. Stiles let his eyes flicker open, eyelashes catching against Derek’s, to find himself staring into ruby red, burning eyes. Only then did he realise a dark, gentle tugging, a shadow over his eyes.

Derek’s hand reached up, and Stiles closed his eyes to let Derek rub a thumb over his eyelid lightly. Not to hide it, or to push it away – a curiosity. When Derek lowered his hand, fingers lightly touching Stiles’ cheekbone, jaw, shoulder, back, Stiles opened his eyes again. This time, brown eyes met blue.

And something about all this was so perfect that Stiles, as he was prone to do, started to laugh. And it was made all the better by how the vibrations in his chest were met with vibrations from Derek’s.

“Are you cold?” Derek asked eventually, voice low, hands rubbing up and down Stiles’ sides protectively.

Stiles shook his head, forehead rubbing against Derek’s. “Don’t get cold,” he muttered truthfully.

“Unfortunately, I do,” Derek muttered back, and they shared another smile before, with a touch of regret, stepping apart. Stiles felt Derek squeeze his hand, looking across at him one final time, before they continued to walk down the path.

They walked in silence, for a long way. Stiles was fine with that. And, apparently, Derek was fine with how Stiles was making their hands swing, like they were teenagers, or toddlers.

After a while, Stiles bit his lip, and burst out with, “I’m gonna go ahead and guess here that you heard most of my conversation with Dad,” Stiles said suddenly. He waited just long enough to hear a vaguely affirming sound from Derek before continuing, “So you’ll know I kinda need a place to crash for a few days... d’you think there’s, like, space at yours, somewhere?”

Stiles expected Derek to scoff, once again point out how he was taking Stiles back to his house, but Derek didn’t hesitate long enough for Stiles to start worrying over it that much, instead, calmly saying, “I think I can find some space.” He paused, and Stiles’ breath caught in his chest as Derek turned to look across at him, that gentle expression in place once more. “Somewhere.”

*

_“They say it’s what you make, I say it’s up to fate, it’s woven in my soul, I need to let you go-”_

Stiles sung loudly as he jumped over the box of flour he’d dropped earlier, only slightly off-time with the stereo, pressing the alarm on the oven off with extreme vigor. “ _-Your eyes they shine so bright, I wanna save that light, I can’t escape this now, UNLESS YOU SHOW ME HOOOWWWWWW-_ ”

“Dude, _shut up!_ ”

Stiles didn’t stop grinning as he spun back to face the doorway, but he did stop singing. “No cookies for _you!”_ he tutted, brandishing the rolling pin in his hands at Scott.

“As if I want your scummy cookies anyway,” Scott protested, nose tilted up snobbishly.

“I think you mean _scrummy!”_ Stiles corrected cheerfully, ignoring his best friend just long enough to pull the freshly baked tray from the oven. He swung around carefully, so as not to send his baked goodies flying, and set them on the work surface with a flourish.

He laughed at the groan from Scott. “Dude, they’re not even cookies, they’re brownies! Don’t get my hopes _up_ like that!”

“I thought you said you didn’t want them anyway?” Stiles queried, one eye raised. Scott stuck his tongue out at him – Stiles matched it. “You’re not getting any, anyway – they’re for Dad. Kind of a ‘sorry we bled all over your front garden last week’ present.”

“That was three weeks ago, Stiles. With the black dog, remember?”

Stiles frowned. “I thought it was the hunters from Seattle?”

Scott shook his head. “Nope. That was _my_ front lawn. The black dog was your dad’s front lawn.”

Stiles frowned for one more second, before shrugging it off. But before he could say another thing, a breathless Isaac appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. “What are you two stood here gossiping like old women for?” he panted, leaning against Scott as he tried to get his breath back. “Wendigo, you idiots! In the forest! Trying to kill us! _Right now!_ Did you _forget?”_

“I didn’t know!” Stiles protested, turning to glare at Scott at the exact same time as Isaac.

Scott grimaced. “ _I’m_ the one who forgot.” When Isaac growled, Scott stepped back, and pouted as he waved at Stiles and said, “But _brownies!_ ”

“Which are not for _either_ of you!” Stiles yelled, waving the rolling pin about once more.

Utterly predictably, Scott whined, but Isaac elbowed him and rolled his eyes. “C’mon, we’ll steal some later. But now – _wendigo!”_

He turned and strode from the room. Stiles felt Scott look at him, so he met his gaze and grinned, before following Isaac out of the room. “I thought the Winchesters said it wasn’t gonna be in the area until next week?”

“Yeah, well they got it wrong. You can berate them about it next time you and Sam have one of your gossip sessions.”

Stiles grinned, not denying it, as Isaac flung open the door, him and Scott bounding out and snarling all teeth and fangs and ready action. Stiles walking over to the umbrella rack, searching behind the countless colored umbrellas Lydia had left there, until he found the well-worn and loved wooden handle.

He drew the dented and bloody baseball bat out with a flourish. The barbed wire was getting blunt and dented, he’d change it soon. But it’d do for now.

It didn’t take him long to find the pack, now so adept as following the pulsing of their souls that he could do it – and sometimes did do it – half asleep. They were in a well-lit clearing, a circle of them facing all sides, crouched and growling and ready to pounce.

Stiles continued to hum as he made his way around the circle. “ _Don’t wanna let you down, but I am hell-bound, oh this is all for you, don’t wanna hide the true..._ ”

Reaching Derek’s side, he leant forwards and pressed a quick kiss to a non-furry part of his love’s cheek. “’Ello, love,” he said, in a frankly appalling English accent. “Fancy meeting you here.” Derek growled. Stiles laughed, and knocked their shoulders together.

He swung the bat around, loosening his wrist, taking up a stance beside Derek. He pulled the red hood of his hoodie up, over his head. He blinked, and his eyes turned black.

Something broke a twig, just a few meters from them, into the forest.

Stiles snapped his head to look at it, and grinned.

“ _No matter what we breed, we still are made of greed... This is my kingdom come, this is my kingdom come...”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Ooorrrr not QUITE the end. Yeah, I'm making a series. Sorry, guys! Not rid of this AU just yet!  
>  There are lots that I haven't been able to tie in to this story arc, so I'm gonna write other little snippets, such as the development of a semi-friendship twix Winchesters/Hales/Stilinskis, some casual domestic stuffs (love me domestic stuffs), and, of course, Stiles' story of how he sold his soul.  
> If you've got any requests for a particular thing you want to see, ask! Or ask on my tumblr, dannyboy-to-thedoctor. Happy to write anything you want to read! 
> 
> I owe SO MUCH THANKS to THIS bastard; LucentPetrichor. She has suffered through SO, SO MUCH whilst I've been writing this. Dude - this one goes out to you. 
> 
> And the song, at the end, in case you didn't know? Demons, by Imagine Dragons. 
> 
> Thank you, one and all, for reading and commenting. You're all lovely. The reception of this has blown me OVER. So cookies to all of you.


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